Page 16 of What’s Left of You (What Left #2)

The part about Porscha killing that benefits me is her lack of focus. She’s scatterbrained, trying desperately to keep her kills in order as well as remembering to subdue me. Yesterday when she was rambling on and on about her plans for the next kill, she forgot to give me the injection.

Today she’s bragging. She showed up and stormed around upstairs, laughing like a maniac. Without the drug dulling my senses, I had the joy of listening to that chaos for most of the evening—until she either finally calmed down or passed out.

Unfortunately there’s no escaping her mania now.

“Do you think I should throw a party?” Porscha asks with a laugh, dancing around the room. She reeks of cigarette smoke and cheap perfume. It’s not like there’s anything else to focus on down here, so even if I’d love to ignore her, I can’t exactly pretend she’s not there.

“Who would come?” I ask dryly. Two days ago she gave me some water; now she drops random ice chips in my mouth when she feels like it, but the IV takes care of any dehydration concerns. I need real hydration, though, real water, not the scraps she keeps doling out.

At least she’s still interested in feeding me.

It’s awkward as shit since she won’t give me back the use of my hands, but I eat what she gives me and try to not spit it back at her.

I need to build up as much strength as I can so I can try to get free.

If she happens to be around, I swear I’ll strangle her as a parting gift.

She waves a hand and continues skipping around the room, constantly running her hands across the clothing hanging around us.

I wish the ceiling were shorter so she would bash her head as she moves.

“You let me worry about the guest list, boy. We’re serial killers. Who doesn’t want to party with us?”

That just makes me think about the letters I used to get in prison from psychotic fans.

I received detailed love notes in the beginning from total strangers, idolizing the killings and techniques like I’d done something exceptional by torturing all those women.

Men, women, the insanity had no bounds when it came to fanmail.

Eventually I stopped opening the letters because reading the words brought me absolutely no joy.

I’m a killer. People should be worried about getting close to me.

Porscha hums, hopping over to my side. I almost wish Fake Porscha would appear and keep me company. “Her name was Tanya. Tanya Gomez.”

I blink, lifting my head to stare at what she’s holding. “You took her wallet?”

“Living off grid is expensive boy,” she tells me, pulling back with a wink. “Took the cash, dumped the cards. It’s a nice wallet though, so I’m keeping it. I thought I’d keep the ID so the FBI has to work to find answers.”

As if they aren’t already?

Licking my lips, I decide to play along and keep her distracted. If we can keep the dosage down, she’ll lose her hold on me. Nevermind the cravings, that’s something I'll have to find a different way to deal with. “Did you do that for the last girl?”

Her eyes flash with excitement. “See, this is just like old times! Your soul is still fucked up, just like mine. I knew you’d want to hear all about it!”

The words make me wince, and suddenly, I’m thrown into a memory I’d prefer to forget.

The woman standing on the other side of the door has a youthful face smudged with paint.

She immediately reminds me of one of my classmates, from her strawberry blonde hair to the way she raises an eyebrow as she looks at me.

The eyes are different though. This woman’s are green, but the girl I'm thinking of has blue eyes. She’s tall, especially for a woman; she’s well over six feet, but doesn’t quite reach my six-foot-five frame.

There’s a tool belt slung over her shoulder and a hardhat on her head.

She smiles at me, radiant white teeth sparkling in the sun. “Hi! I’m Porscha. I’m supposed to be here to repair and paint some cabinets?”

“Yeah, Rob said someone would be by. This way I guess.” I glare at her; she interrupted my work, and I don’t want to give her the time of day. But the sooner I show her to the shit my foster parents are having repaired, the sooner I can go upstairs and ignore her.

“Are you a friend of Rob’s son, uh… something with an E.”

“You really know Rob, don’t you, lady,” I say sarcastically, glancing over my shoulder. We head to the kitchen which is around the corner, and I gesture vaguely to the cabinets. “Emeric. The Franks' other foster kid. I’m the new one.”

She nods slowly, eyeing me up and down. Her gaze lingers a lot longer than I expect, giving me extra time to study her too.

Yeah, she looks like that girl that Emeric hangs out with. Joelle. But I’d say the younger version is prettier than the lady standing in front of me.

“Well it’s nice to meet you…”

Her voice trails, and I roll my eyes. “Alastair.”

“Pleasure,” she says, not at all put off by my attitude.

I’m guessing she’s trying to be professional.

She’s definitely not getting paid to deal with a moody teenager.

She flashes me a grin and I see there’s a gap in her front teeth.

It’s stirring up a memory. “So, when will Rob be back? I have some questions about what the Franks need done specifically. I can start sanding-”

“Rob and Jen will be back around six,” I tell her dismissively, moving back towards the living room.

Wait. The teeth. That chick acting all shady with the SUV the other day looks just like her, and I pivot back and do a double take. She’s staring at me with a calculating look, that friendliness from moments ago gone.

Does she recognize me too? I acknowledged that it was blood on the pavement when she drove off, and I glance at her bare arms. Doesn’t look like there’s a mark, but it was weeks ago. Maybe it wasn’t deep.

When our eyes meet again her lip twitches up into a smirk. “Is your brother home?”

That should put me on alert, but I’m curious where she’s going with this. “Not yet. Soon, though.”

She nods, then winks. “Next time you want to light one up, think about sharing. I like to blow off steam sometimes too, boy.”

I squirm. I’ve had enough run-ins with untrustworthy people since I got thrown into the foster system that I know a shady character when I see one. “Fuck you, lady.”

“Porscha,” she reminds me, a little laugh in her voice. “Fuck you, Porscha. But I’d be nicer to me if I was you. I knew Rob years ago. We go way back. It would suck for you if he decided to give you up suddenly because of something silly like smoking pot.”

She can’t be serious. I’ve seen manipulation before but this is so transparent. “Do you want something?”

Her eyes skate over me again, and then she smiles. “No, I don’t think so, not right now. If your soul is fucked up like I think it is, like mine is, well…. we’ll be seeing each other soon enough.”

Porscha is clapping like a lunatic when I snap out of the memory. It’s not the worst memory I have but it was the defining moment between us. The moment she learned she could manipulate me, I was fucked.

I should’ve just let her tattle to Rob and gone back into the system. Lesson learned.

“I have to go out tonight,” she says, throwing me a pout like I’m supposed to be disappointed. I keep my features slack, hoping I look bored. “I have a little business to take care of, but we can have that party when I get back.”

“I get to join in?” I ask sarcastically, but she’s already heading for the stairs. She pauses, lingering at the bottom step, and I wonder if she’s realized she forgot something.

Turning, she gives me a wide smile. It seems genuine, and that’s by far creepier than her smirks. “I think I met someone, Alastair.”

I snort, looking around. “Well, by all means, please don’t let me get in the way of that.”

She gives me an unamused look. “Not like what we had, silly. Something real.”

“We didn’t have anything, Porscha. Nothing that existed outside your mind.”

She twitches, spinning back again. “Stop being cruel, Alastair. This is serious. Now I need to go meet Artemis-”

“The professor?” I ask, surprised. For weeks, she’s spent her dear sweet time ignoring me and giving me breadcrumbs of information to go on. Whoever it is that she’s infatuated with, it’s enough to distract her from my permanent isolation down here in storage.

She’s slipping… just like last time. Porscha can’t handle the endless strain of hiding all her dark secrets. Maybe that’s why she ran away and became someone new when it was too much to handle.

“Yes, the professor,” she says with a scoff, pacing back to me. She snatches something off one of the trays and waves it in front of my face. I expect it to be one of her little vials of drugs, but it’s a knife. “We’ve become fast friends since she wanted a signed copy of Harrowths’ book.”

I stare at her, flexing my jaw as I debate how to respond to that. “Porscha… who the hell is Harrowths?”

Her eye twitches, and she twists her head to one side and looks away, her hand tightening on the handle of the blade. “No, that doesn’t matter, Alastair. Harrowths isn’t alive anymore. I can’t be someone who doesn’t exist.”

Yet you’re still okay being Porscha. I wanted to ask her if Harrowths was another of her personalities but I didn’t want to keep her down here any longer.

No matter who she pretends to be, the monster hiding beneath the surface always wins out.

She couldn’t pretend to be a small-town single mom while she masqueraded as a killer, and she definitely couldn’t handle being just Dr. Char Rowths-Spurig when she could be a psychopath again, show off what she could do.

I’m amazed we’re only up to two bodies since the prison break.