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SIX

AMETHYST

I stare at the image of the woman swallowing an entire dildo, not knowing what to think. It could be a still from a porno movie or a picture someone downloaded online. There’s no way for me to authenticate it because I’ve never even met Kayla.

Just in case it’s real, I turn back to the nightstand where I left my replica of Xero’s silicone erection. Its base is thick and beneath are suckers that help it adhere to any smooth surface. One glance at the photo on the phone tells me that they’re similar, but I can’t see the bulk of its shaft.

Xero’s dildo is covered in round bumps to replicate all his cock piercings, but it’s impossible to tell in the photo. Just in case the person texting me really did mess with Kayla, I text Myra to check on her assistant.

The burner phone buzzes with another message, but I ignore it. Podcasting about a killer brings out extreme reactions in people, along with my fair share of online trolls. Anyone from the penitentiary could have found Xero’s phone. How do I know it’s him and not an impersonator?

But what if the governor intervened, or the execution failed? Xero could still be alive.

I make another online search for updates on his execution, finding footage leaked from Alderney State Penitentiary. It’s Xero in a small chaplain, towering over a priest. My breath catches. Grief hits me in a wave, making my knees buckle. I’ve only ever seen selfies of the man or close-up videos he’s managed to send from the prison’s blind spot. I’ve never once seen him in a full-body shot.

He’s a titan compared to the surrounding guards, with a strong build and broad, muscular shoulders. My heart squeezes, and I release a pained groan, knowing what’s gotten him so agitated.

Xero is waiting at the altar.

For me.

Moments later, another guard enters the chaplain, saying their time is up because another couple is waiting to get married.

Xero tells the guard that I will come. I’m just running late, but the guard walks out and returns with a blond prisoner and a pregnant woman in a wedding dress. An argument breaks out and Xero punches one of the guards. The couple skitters out of the frame as the other guards rush at Xero.

“No,” I whisper, my hand clamping over my mouth.

The next scene is a one-man riot. Every guard in the chaplain piles on Xero and more rush in from other doorways. Xero fights them off, seeming powered by the fury of being jilted, until streams of electricity fly out from a weapon and he’s tased. He charges toward a door, but another guard hits him with a taser, bringing him to the ground.

As he convulses on the floor, the guards surround him, looking ready for retaliation. That’s when the footage cuts, leaving an advert on the screen for X-Cite Media, a subscription site claiming to have the full footage of Xero’s beat down and execution.

My stomach churns as I navigate to the web address, finding scenes upon scenes of women being degraded and tortured. It’s one of those sites that sells extreme sex, with scenes of real violence that could give anyone nightmares. It takes ten minutes of trying to navigate out of the site because it’s filled my phone with pop-ups.

When I search social media again for news of the execution, another influencer has already uploaded a video. Her name is Lizzie Bath, a shortened version of the serial killer Countess Elizabeth Bathory. Her page is the UnofficialXerofan club and all she ever uploads are reactions to clips of me reading out Xero’s letters. She’s one of those people who will do anything for clout.

“Look at this for a moment,” says a reedy voice.

Lizzie Bath raises a finger and points at the screen, where four guards wrestle Xero into an electric chair. His beautiful platinum hair has been shaved, leaving a face that’s a swollen mass of bruises with blood streaming from his temple from that brutal attack at the chaplain.

My chest tightens, each breath becoming a struggle against an invisible weight pressing on my splintered heart. Tears well up in my eyes, distorting the world into a watery blur.

Xero wanted to go to the electric chair happy, satisfied, and fulfilled in the knowledge that our souls would be forever connected by marriage. Because of me, he died in anguish.

He struggles as the guards secure his limbs with thick leather straps before placing a band over his eyes. Once he’s immobilized, they step backward, and then there’s a brief pause as the same priest from the preview walks into view to make the sign of a cross.

“They brutalized him,” Lizzie says through wracking sobs. “They made our baby’s last moments painful.”

This is the first time we’ve ever been in agreement.

Lizzie bows her head, and the video continues. A new guard places an electrode helmet over Xero’s head. It’s a metal contraption lined with wet sponges that trickle water over the bloody side of his face, presumably to make sure the electricity conducts.

Bitterness claws its way up my throat, threatening to cut off my air. I force it down with a gulp, but it’s like swallowing a mouthful of inhumanity. Xero wanted me in the observation room, watching him as he took his last breath. Since I couldn’t be with him yesterday, I mustn’t look away today.

“What gives them the right to kill such a beautiful soul?” she says, her words choked.

My breath hitches as his body seizes with the first volts of electricity. He heaves a breath, his prominent pecs pressing against his prison jumpsuit, then the greenscreen goes black .

“That’s all I can show,” Lizzie says to the camera, her face streaked with tears. “The rest of the clip is behind a paywall at a website called X-Cite Media. I have to warn you that all their footage is about death. In case anyone is sick enough to watch the full execution, I’ve linked it in my bio.”

“What?” My jaw drops, and I gape as her video loops back to the beginning. “Are you making money from Xero’s execution, you opportunistic old hag?”

I navigate away from The Unofficial Xero fan club and read an article in the New Alderney Times, where the reporter who attended Xero’s execution calls for the end of the death penalty. Her description of his death is so graphic that the phone slips from my fingers and falls to the floor.

“He died alone and in flames,” I read, my voice a trembling whisper. The words sear through my conscience, each syllable a knife. I should have been at his side, filling the last few moments of his life with joy. My mind churns, replaying wasted moments, lost seconds. I could have helped Xero.

Guilt gnaws at my soul, a relentless beast. I imagine his face, twisted in agony, and shame crushes my spirit. He trusted me, and I let him die alone.

My chest burns with resentment. Resentment at myself for getting distracted by those photos of me as a child. Resentment at the police, who took their time getting to the house and spent over an hour interrogating me about being in possession of child porn. Resentment at Xero’s family for treating him and others so horrifically that he was compelled to extinguish their lives.

The phone by my foot buzzes, making me flinch.

Whoever is impersonating Xero is trying to get in touch. I reach down, pick up the phone, and glare at the screen.

Enjoying the show?

My nostrils flare. How did he know I was watching the execution? Is he a hacker?

I don’t reply, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of a response.

He sends a picture of a sex contract I signed that outlined the terms and conditions of my relationship with Xero. In the right-hand corner is my lip print in Purple Damson lipstick .

Fury ignites in my chest, filling my veins with molten fire. I should take this handset to the police and report whoever’s behind the messages for harassment, but I’m overwhelmed by the urge to put him in his place.

He writes:

Was anything between us even real?

My fingers tremble as I type out a reply:

You know what’s more pathetic than a prison guard who brutalizes their charges? One who scavenges a dead man’s possessions to harass his girlfriend.

The phone you’re playing with belongs to Xero’s estate. No matter how much you try to impersonate him, you will never measure up to his greatness.

Three dots appear, and I clench my teeth, waiting to see what he’ll say next. Hopefully, something incriminating, so I can hand the evidence to the police.

You didn’t answer my question.

I scroll back to see what he asked. Reading the question again makes my throat burn with even more guilt at leaving Xero at the altar, mere hours before his execution. Before I can even process the emotion, another message pops up on the screen.

From the way I’m looking at it, you used me for fame.

Without thinking, I tap out a reply:

Stealing Xero’s phone doesn’t make you him, asshole. What I had with Xero was genuine, and I can tell the difference between a real man and a maggot.

Three dots appear, but I’ve had enough of this creep. Before he can type out a message, I pick up a hair pin and jam it into the tiny hole on the side of my phone. When the metal tray pops out, I extract the SIM card and toss it on the nightstand.

“Fuck that dickhead,” I mutter. “He won’t get the satisfaction of driving me crazy.”

I open a drawer and slip the phone inside, determined to leave it there forever. Whoever’s trying to harass me can howl at the fucking moon. I am nobody’s prey.