Page 137 of The Wicked

Except, according to my people in charge of getting the answers out of him, he wasn’t opening up.

This was when I usually succumbed to taking matters into my own hands, but I had been hesitating. If I interfered, someone would die… and I didn’t have time to see through a wipeout, so I put the artist’s fate in the hands of professionals who could torture the truth out of him.

That way, nobody dies. And I still get my answer.

I should also probably stop Street from wasting their time searching for the fakes. But what good would that do me?

I wanted to keep them busy, away from me. I needed to focus.

I neededheraway from my space.

I couldn’t afford the distracting feelings that came with my thoughts trailing to her—damn it.

I flipped a page open in the folder, my eyes perusing the words as I read—correction; Itriedto read, to understand the words, and I did understand them, but they made absolutely no sense.

Three weeks.

Three weeks of me trying so hard to school my thoughts, to block out the voice of the witch, to erase the strange feeling of dissatisfaction, and the nonsensical craving I had to hear her speak to me. To have her ask me questions that would require me totalkto her. To have a conversation where she threw out sarcastic jokes, and I pretended to hate them.

Pathetic.

The woman probably doesn’t remember you exist, and if she doesremember, what then?She had made her feelings clear. And even if she hadn’t, even if by an opportune chance she actually wanted to talk about it, what would happen afterward? Did we explore? Did I ask her to enter into a relationship with me? Did I fuck her—

That is a very nefarious thought, Elio. She is with your brother, for God’s sake.

I was getting ahead of myself here. Why would I think of a relationship with someone I still fantasized about killing?

What is wrong with you, Elio?

I didn’t like this.

This fucking distraction—I banged the folder on the table, the blow from my fist causing a rattle as I shot to my feet, walking around the desk while rubbing my brows and pacing back and forth in the study.

“Focus, focus,” I chanted. “These are all useless thoughts, not beneficial; it’s not aiding your goals, it’s not important, it’s rubbish… She’s rubbish, she’s nothing, she’s a woman, she’s just an element made up of skin, bones, and a soul, she’s only matter, a substance put together with numerous particles that occupy space. Nothing more, she’s—”

“E, are you fr—”

I stopped and turned towards the door to see that it was opened slightly with Casmiro peeking in, brows drawn down in a frown.

“Were you talking to yourself?” he asked.

“No.”

I shoved both my hands into my pockets, watching him.

Slowly, he walked into the study, eyes going around the space like he was trying to seek out who I was talking to; when he couldn’t find anyone, he looked back at me with a frown, and I kept my expression blank.

“I heard you mumbling something.”

“You heard nothing.”

“I heard something—”

“What is the reason for your visit? State it and leave. I am busy.”

“Talking to yourself?”

“State it. And leave.”