Page 21

Chapter twenty

Mad World

Kenny surfaced as if dragging himself through tar, body too heavy, too distant, mind screaming for clarity.

The first thing he registered was the pressure in his skull. A dull, throbbing ache behind his eyes. Like a vice tightening around his brain. His mouth was dry as sandpaper, tongue thick and useless, stuck to the roof of his mouth. Something bitter and chemical clung to his taste buds. He tried to move but his limbs refused to obey, weighed down by a lethargy so deep it felt as if his muscles had detached from his nervous system.

Scopolamine.

Midazolam.

The realisation slithered through his fatigued mind, and with it, a sharp spike of adrenaline. He’d been drugged. But, more importantly, where the fuck was he?

He attempted a strained inhale, lungs stuttering against the motion, as if they’d forgotten how to expand properly, and he sank into soft cushions beneath him. Worn. Familiar. The scent of his own home faintly registering.

The sofa.

His sofa.

How the fuck had he got here?

His fingers twitched, a sluggish, delayed response as he forced himself to shift, to move, but he felt trapped in someone else’s body. His limbs felt wrong. Disconnected. His vision swam as he pried his eyes open, the dim light of his living room blurring and doubling, the ceiling spinning above him in nauseating spirals.

A shudder wracked through him. Cold sweat. Weak muscles. Shaky pulse.

Fuck .

His heart slammed against his ribs, erratic and uneven, but he clenched his jaw, forcing himself to fight through the haze.

Think, Kenny.

What happened?

A breath. A fragmented recollection.

Pryce .

Her voice. Low. Smug. Clinical.

“Killers are born, Dr Lyons. And you? You’re about to witness it firsthand.”

The sting of a needle. The rush of a foreign substance through his veins. His own body betraying him. His sharp, ragged exhale forced the flood of memories, disjointed but returning fast, hard. Pryce had done this to him. She’d fucking drugged him. Then she’d convinced the faculty he was drunk, and they’d helped her take him home! She had him right where she wanted him. Helpless. Unable to stop whatever came next. And why? Because of Aaron.

Fuck. Aaron!

A fresh bolt of panic shot through him, cutting through the lingering fog like a live wire. Where was Aaron? He dug his fingers into the sofa, shaking, but he forced himself to sit up, head lolling forward before he caught himself. The room spun violently, vision narrowing into a pinprick of light before snapping wide, nausea curling through his gut.

Push through. Push through.

He gritted his teeth, pressing his palms into the cushions, testing his own strength. His arms shook, legs like dead weights, but he wouldn’t let himself sink back down.

Not now!

His entire nervous system fought him. Reflexes lagging. But he forced his body to obey. A deep inhale. Another. Slow. Steady. Kenny clawed his way back to full consciousness, fighting through the aftereffects, shoving away the chemical fog to push up onto unsteady legs, bracing against the armrest.

My phone.

Where the fuck was his phone?

He scanned the room, blurry, unfocused, before locking onto it on the coffee table. He lunged.

Or tried to.

Muscles still lagging, he miscalculated, and he nearly collapsed, catching himself on the table, knocking over a stack of books. Aaron’s books. Shaky fingers grabbed for his phone, the screen blurring as he tried to focus.

Missed calls. Texts. Aaron’s name flashing.

Something was wrong.

Something was so fucking wrong.

His hands trembled as he fumbled with his phone, unlocking it with a clumsy swipe. He called Aaron. Voicemail. Fuck. He tried again. Voicemail. The sound of the line cutting off punched him in the gut. He gritted his teeth, dipped forward, and pressed his fingers into his forehead, willing himself back to full strength.

Jack. He dialled Jack. The phone rang out.

A wave of nausea surged. His stomach clenched, and before he could stop it, he retched, doubling over and vomiting onto the carpet. Not letting it stop him, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, forced air into his lungs, and with shaking fingers, dialled 999. The call barely connected before something caught his eye—a notification in WhatsApp.

His stomach turned ice.

He opened it.

She got Mel.

Kenny shot up so fast the room tilted. His legs gave way, sending him crashing back onto the sofa, but adrenaline cut through the dizziness. His heart pounded, a frenzied drumbeat, too fast, too hard. He hit call again. Aaron. Pick up. Voicemail. Jack. Nothing.

Think, think!

He swiped open FindMy. Clicked on Aaron’s phone. Last known location: The university. Okay. That was good. That had to be good. Aaron was still with the police escort. He’d be in his lecture, phone off, oblivious to all of this. That made sense. It made fucking sense.

But Mel…

Kenny knew what that text meant.

A sickening realisation struck. Aaron wouldn’t have stayed at the university. He would’ve gone after Mel. And he would’ve gone alone . No . He wouldn’t. He’d promised. Nothing stupid. So Kenny had to ignore every grain of instinct screaming at him to believe that maybe it was already over. Maybe they were safe. At the police station, being interviewed.

No . He knew that wasn’t likely.

Years of behaviour analysis had told him not to ignore those gut feelings.

Think like her.

Cold. Methodical. Performative.

Child A didn’t lash out without purpose. He knew that much from his assessment of her years ago and from what was unfolding right now. If she was even a smidgen like Roisin, how she’d been taught, she was an orchestrator. And knew exactly which strings to pull. Mel wasn’t just bait; she was a symbol. Like Taylor. Like his mother . She was showing how attachments were weaknesses. Using Mel was a psychological strike designed to cut where it hurt most.

This wasn’t about chaos. It was about control . Escalation, yes. But also, evolution. Each move sharper. More intimate. She wanted to isolate Aaron. Physically, of course. But also, emotionally. Destabilise him.

She wanted him alone .

Unprotected. Reactive. Impulsive.

She didn’t need to chase Aaron. She could predict him. That was the power of shared trauma. She knew what would rattle him, and more importantly, she knew how he would try to fix it.

Now think like him .

Aaron, for all his rage and bravado, was heartbreakingly loyal. And haunted. He carried guilt like a second skin. Kenny had seen it in every glance, every withdrawal, every time Aaron turned away from affection as if it burned. If Mel was in danger, Aaron wouldn’t hesitate. He wouldn’t ask questions. He’d run straight into the fire, even if he knew how hot it burned.

Guilt, love, and the need to make it right. That was Aaron’s fatal flaw. The one his sister had always known he couldn’t outrun.

So where are they?

Kenny’s mind sprinted.

He recalled back to the hypnotherapy session.

“I… I’m getting up. My feet are cold. The hallway is dark, but the music is still playing. It’s coming from outside.”

“Outside where?”

“The shed. The warehouse. I’m not allowed in there.”

That wasn’t just memory. It was programming. Conditioning. The site of trauma. His mind’s epicentre.

For the sister, it was more than practical. It was ritualistic. Cyclical. A dark homecoming. Where it all began. Where she’d realised there was another child. Where they both met face to face for the first time. When she’d realised Aaron hadn’t been treated like her. And hadn’t helped when she’d needed it. That had manifested over the years in confinement into rage. Revenge . She would lure him there. Make him relive it. To pay for it. For her to reclaim it. Make him hers again. One final time.

This wasn’t just a kill.

It was theatre. A message. A resurrection of their shared mythology. It wasn’t just symbolism. It was a fucking message . A blueprint drawn in blood and memory.

Of course. Of course.

Kenny shot to his feet, mind locked in. The profiler in him had overthrown the panic, replacing it with sharp, slicing clarity.

“She’s recreating it,” he said aloud, his voice a rasp in the silent room. “The origin point. For her, it’s poetic. For Aaron… it’s a trap.”

Nausea clawed up again, but he swallowed it down to bolt toward the front door, nearly slipping in his own vomit. As he ripped open the door, he halted. His car wasn’t there. He squeezed his eyes shut. Shit. Still at the university. He must have been driven home. Thank fuck he hadn’t attempted to drive in the state he was in. But now, that left him with one option.

Run.

Kenny tore down the pavement, hammering the concrete, each impact jarring through his body like an electric current. He wasn’t fast. His usual stride had abandoned him, replaced by a sluggish, desperate push against the lingering haze of drugs in his veins. His muscles screamed in protest. Lungs burned. But he kept going. Stopping wasn’t an option.

The river. The woods. He had to get there.

Phone clutched in his trembling fingers, he hit 999 again.

A crackling voice answered, calm and controlled. “Emergency, which service do you require?”

“Police!” he gasped, ragged, barely keeping pace with his legs. “Now—get them to Wilton. Tell DI Jack Bentley, Ryston Police. The river. The woods—fuck, I don’t know exactly where—”

“Sir, can you confirm the exact location?”

“I—” His mind scrambled, grasping at fractured memories, but the terrain blurred, unfamiliar in the dark. “Near the old bridge! The—fuck, I don’t—near the lock! By the—”

His foot caught on something.

A tree root.

The world tilted violently.

For a split second, weightlessness. Then impact.

The ground ripped him forward, and he slammed into the mud, momentum dragging him through the slick earth.

His phone flew from his grasp, bouncing once against the sodden ground before launching into the river with a cruel plop .

Gone.

The cold hit next, biting through his clothes, soaking deep.