Page 5 of Wicked Riddles & Bitter Heartbeats (Till Death Do Us Part #1)

For a split second, I think this could be my father.

Perhaps the cheating mother theory is wrong, and they just didn’t want a child at all.

But something about that doesn’t feel right.

I look down the rest of the paper, taking in James’ information and realize there is no way he could be my father.

The age is all wrong. Completely fucking wrong.

It would be impossible for him to be my father, because he’s the same age as me.

Exactly the same age.

James Erickson is my brother.

My twin brother, if this is accurate information. And I believe it is.

There are enough similarities in our features that we could pass as related, but enough differences that people wouldn’t automatically assume so.

No wonder he looks familiar. I see myself in him.

It’s the shape of the eyes and width of our mouths and the height of our cheekbones.

Our jaws are shaped the same, with a similar slope to our noses.

Such stupid things to have the same, but there they are.

A mix of emotions swirl in my chest, building like a tornado.

I’d accepted that I was given up for adoption, but to have twins and only keep one?

I huff out a disbelieving laugh. That’s fucked up.

What made James better than me? Why did he get to stay?

Why was he wanted while I was discarded?

According to the timestamps, I was born first. Meaning, I should have been the one to stay.

I get lost in the information on him. Photos of him through the years. Childhood. School. Graduation. With our mother, which I only know thanks to Gavin labeling it as so. Police Academy. There are awards and certifications. Workplace information.

Boston PD.

Boston fucking PD.

What are the odds?

We’re born in Iowa, yet both end up here? That’s ridiculously unlikely.

According to the paperwork, he’s been an officer for seven years. Graduated the academy at twenty and was top of his class.

My breathing increases as I go over the information one more time, until the anger blinds me and the dark part of me makes itself known.

I don’t bother fighting it. There’s no use.

My mother had another child. A child she kept. Yet she gave me up, put me through a traumatic life, all for what? The only thing that gives me the smallest semblance of peace is staring at her death date. Over seven years ago.

Why did he get to stay?

Before I know what I’m doing, I’m leaving the house, needing fresh air and to let off some steam. I just need to be very, very careful in how I do that. Problem is, this darkness in me doesn’t have a fucking conscience and he’ll do whatever he needs to satisfy his hunger.

By the time I’m back to myself enough that I can focus, it’s been over four hours, and I have no idea where the hell I am.

I lose bits of time frequently. It’s something that started happening after the accident but isn’t always an issue.

I can surmise what I do during these times, but it’s yet to be a problem.

At least the darkness in me is careful—to some extent.

I’m in some nice neighborhood now, one not much different from the one I live in, but I don’t recognize anything as I walk down the street. The air is crisp with the oncoming aura of fall coming soon. The days are sweltering, but the nights are tolerable. Fucking New England weather.

As I pass side streets, I catch sight of their names, trying to figure out where I could have gone. They’re all the same, no matter what town, so it isn’t any fucking help.

Center Street. Main Street. Fifth Street. Broadway. Essex. Union.

The large houses are spread far enough apart, making me think I’ve moved away from Boston instead of closer to it.

If I go far enough, walk long enough, I’ll hit New Hampshire.

It’s happened before. Just once, during one of my really bad black outs.

I’d been gone for two days, not a memory of what I did or what I got up to while I was gone.

At least there wasn’t blood on my hands when I came to and realized I wasn’t home.

Doesn’t mean it wasn’t there at all, only that I had the wherewithal to clean up after myself.

I may black out a lot, but I’m very aware of what I’m capable of—what I’ve done.

There are plenty of kills I remember completely, but many more that I can only recall flashes of.

Some I don’t remember at all. I know I’ve done them, but it’s like I’m seeing them through another lens.

I couldn’t begin to guess how many there have been, only that it’s been a lot.

A car door slams and a woman yelps, pulling my attention across the street to a house that’s smaller than others I’ve passed.

There is a tall brick wall enclosing the front yard, the wall going up the side of the driveway to block it off from the house.

There is no gate to get into the driveway, and at the top is a shiny black car, where I see a man yanking a young woman out from the front seat by her hair.

She’s gripping his arm, trying to get free, but he pulls her harder, causing her to screech.

“Stop it, let me go!” From her words, I can tell she’s crying. Or was. I hate when people cry. Not in an emotional way, but in the way it grates on my nerves. It feels like electric zaps to my nerves, and I can’t fucking stand it.

“Shut the fuck up, you stupid cunt,” the guy growls.

I look around the quiet street, wondering if any of the neighbors hear this.

Is it common behavior from this couple? Do the neighbors look the other way?

If so, that man has had his last lucky break because he’s exactly what I’ve been looking for tonight, and I am grateful as fuck that I’m aware enough to enjoy it.

Like an animal, I home in on my target, moving quickly but carefully across the street and up the narrow driveway.

Darkness swirls within my chest, making my body calm and relaxed in a way nothing else can.

My senses are on high alert. The man and woman are already in the house by the time I reach the front door.

I go for the handle because, like the arrogant asshole I know he is, he doesn’t lock it.

Doesn’t he know better?

In his shouting, he doesn’t hear me come in.

He has the girl pressed against the wall across the living room, hands around her throat and squeezing.

Both of their faces are red, but he’s spewing words at her, spit flying, while her lips are already a beautiful shade of blue.

Her arms flail, slapping him in the face, on the chest, scratching his throat, doing anything she can to survive.

This girl wants to live.

She’s fighting for her life because she wants to see tomorrow.

This woman doesn’t want to die. In her panic, her gaze darts around the room, landing on me and time stops.

It just… fucking stops. Those bright, crystal blue eyes are a contrast against her dark hair.

Eyes that hide no secrets. They’re full of emotion and stories and scars and pain.

So much like mine, but also so very different.

I’m not Dexter Morgan. I don’t have a fucking code to this shit.

I’ve killed innocent people, but it was never on purpose.

Sometimes I just snap. When my darkness is hungry, he needs to eat.

I feed him with the worst sorts of people when I’m in the right frame of mind.

I’m capable of knowing the difference between good and bad, on most days.

Problem is, I’m not always “here” enough to care.

This guy? He doesn’t deserve the air he breathes, doesn’t deserve to walk this earth and take in the moon and stars and everything wondrous. He is a cockroach. A disease. He’s nothing.

I am not a good man and some days I am most definitely a bad one. All the other times? I’m just me. Atticus fucking St. Claire, The Boston Phantom, and tonight… I’m going to feed my darkness a delicious meal.