32. Arson
Arson
Six steps forward, six steps back. The cell’s dimensions have become intimately familiar over the past hour—concrete walls that absorb nothing, harsh fluorescent lighting that leaves no shadows, and my brother watching my every move with calculated amusement.
“You’re going to wear a trench in the floor,” Aries observes from his seated position on the cot. Despite the restraints, despite the blood drying on his split lip, he maintains an infuriating air of ease—as if his captivity is a minor inconvenience rather than the culmination of my decade-long plan.
I ignore him, continuing my measured pacing.
Six steps, turn. Six steps, turn . Mentally reviewing security protocols, calculating possibilities, searching for weaknesses in a system I designed to be impenetrable.
“She really got under your skin, didn’t she?” Aries continues, voice deliberately conversational. “Can’t say I blame you. She has a certain...quality that’s hard to resist. I should know.”
My jaw tightens, but I refuse to respond. Won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing how effectively his words land.
“Though I have to wonder,” he presses, chains clinking as he adjusts his position, “what exactly happened between you two. She seems remarkably attached despite your charming personality.”
“Shut up,” I finally snap, stopping my pacing to glare at him.
His smile widens fractionally. “Hit a nerve, have I? Interesting. I thought you were just using her to get to me. But it’s more than that, isn’t it?”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t I?” He leans forward slightly, eyes—identical to mine—gleaming with the particular satisfaction of finding a weak point. “I know what desire looks like, Brother. I recognize obsession. After all, we share the same genetic predispositions.”
I resume pacing, refusing to engage further.
Six steps, turn. Six steps, turn.
“Did she tell you how responsive she was with me?” Aries continues, voice dropping lower. “How perfectly she fit against me? The sounds she made when I?—”
“One more word,” I interrupt, voice deadly quiet, “and I’ll put you back on the floor.”
He laughs, the sound echoing off concrete walls.
“There he is. The monster they created in that place. Always so close to the surface, isn’t he? No matter how hard you try to keep him on a leash.”
I clench my hands into fists, nails digging into my palms hard enough to draw blood. The desire to cross the cell and beat him unconscious is nearly overwhelming—and exactly what he wants. To prove him right. To demonstrate that I am exactly what they made me.
“It must be exhausting,” Aries continues, watching me fight for control. “Constantly restraining yourself. Pretending you’re something more than an institutional experiment gone wrong. Tell me, do you think Lilian sees past the performance? Or is she just attracted to the danger you represent?”
The question hits with precision, targeting the exact uncertainty that’s plagued me since the flood. Since the unexpected tenderness that formed between us. Since the moment she called me by his name.
“I said shut up,” I repeat, each word carefully measured. But we both know he’s found his target. And like any predator sensing weakness, he won’t stop now that blood is in the water.
“You know,” Aries continues, apparently incapable of self-preservation, “I’ve been wondering which of us she prefers in bed. The calculated control or the raw passion? The careful precision or the primal?—”
The Taser appears in my hand before he can finish, drawn from the back of my waistband where I’d secured it after our earlier confrontation. I point it directly at his chest, finger on the trigger.
“I told you to shut up,” I say, voice eerily calm now. “The next words out of your mouth will determine whether you remain conscious for the next six hours.”
Aries eyes the weapon, head tilted slightly as he calculates his options. The restraints limit his movement, his ability to dodge. We both know a second Taser hit would be excruciating, potentially dangerous given the lingering effects of the first.
“You wouldn’t,” he tests, but there’s a new caution in his tone.
“Wouldn’t I?” I take a step closer. “You seem to have forgotten who locked you up in the first place. Who kept you here for weeks. Who has very little to lose at this point.”
The Taser hums softly as I activate it, the sound filling the small space between us. “One more word about her. One more attempt to get under my skin. I dare you.”
Something in my expression must convince him because he raises his hands slightly in mock surrender. “Fine. Consider the subject dropped.”
“All subjects dropped,” I clarify. “I don’t want to hear your voice at all.”
He mimes zipping his lips, the juvenile gesture somehow more infuriating than his words had been. But he settles back against the wall, maintaining my demand for silence.
I lower the Taser but don’t put it away, a visible reminder of my willingness to enforce the quiet. Returning to my pacing, I try to clear my mind and focus on the practical problem of our captivity rather than the psychological warfare Aries excels at.
Minutes stretch into what feels like hours, the silence broken only by the soft sound of breathing and the occasional clink of Aries’s chains as he shifts position. Our forced proximity is its own unique torture—being trapped in a space designed for one occupant with the person I hate most in the world. Gradually, a different kind of tension replaces the immediate threat of violence. An awareness begins to creep in around the edges of my fury—that Lilian has been gone a significant time. That her emotional outburst, while understandable, should have run its course by now.
I check the digital display on the cell’s environmental control panel: 7:42 p.m.
Over three hours since she locked us in. Three hours of cooling down, of processing her anger. More than enough time to return, to check on us, to continue her forced reconciliation project.
Unless something’s wrong.
I push the thought away, unwilling to give it space to grow. She’s fine. Probably enjoying watching us stew in our mutual hatred. Probably waiting for one of us to break first, to show some sign of willingness to communicate.
But as the minutes continue to tick by, the nagging concern grows stronger. This doesn’t feel like strategy anymore. Doesn’t feel like punishment.
It feels like absence.
I check my phone again: 11:37 p.m. Nearly seven hours since Lilian walked away.
The battery indicator flashes red—20 percent remaining after multiple attempts to reach security cameras from the limited connection inside the cell. No responses to my texts. No indication she’s received them.
This isn’t right.
Lilian is many things—stubborn, unpredictable, increasingly defiant—but she isn’t cruel. Wouldn’t leave us locked up this long without checking in, without food or water, without some indication of her intentions.
Something’s wrong.
I pace faster now, mind racing through possibilities, each worse than the last. Did she leave the warehouse entirely? Get lost in the industrial district after dark? Has someone else found her—the backers, Hayes family security, some random predator?
The thought sends ice through my veins.
Across the cell, Aries watches me with growing attention, sensing the shift in my concern. He’s maintained his silence for hours, retreating into whatever internal world he occupies during captivity. But now his eyes track my movements with renewed focus, noting the increasing frequency with which I check my phone.
“Something’s wrong,” I finally say aloud, breaking the hours-long silence. The admission costs me—showing concern in front of him, revealing a vulnerability he’ll undoubtedly exploit.
But concern for Lilian outweighs tactical considerations. Outweighs pride. Outweighs the careful walls I’ve built between myself and anything resembling human attachment.
Aries straightens, chains shifting with the movement. “What do you mean?”
“Lilian.” I gesture toward the door, the world beyond our shared cage. “She should have come back by now. It’s been almost seven hours.”
“Maybe she left,” he suggests, but without the mocking edge from earlier. “Decided we weren’t worth the trouble.”
I shake my head. “She wouldn’t leave like that. Not without...” I trail off, realizing I’m about to reveal too much.
“Not without saying goodbye,” Aries finishes, voice uncharacteristically subdued. “Not without making sure we weren’t going to kill each other.”
The observation surprises me—not just that he’d complete my thought, but that he’d understand her character well enough to do so accurately. It shouldn’t surprise me, though. He’s known her for years. Has watched her grow from adolescence to adulthood, has been the object of her affection far longer than I’ve been in the picture.
“She has the key card,” I say, more to myself than to him. “The only access point to this cell. If something happened to her?—”
“We’re stuck,” Aries concludes, the implication settling heavily between us.
For the first time since our childhood, we share a moment of perfect understanding—mutual concern overriding mutual hatred, if only briefly.
“When did you last see her on the cameras?” Aries asks, nodding toward my phone.
The question is practical, focused, devoid of his usual antagonism. It creates a disorienting sense of déjà vu— reminiscent of how we once were, before everything shattered. Two parts of the same tactical mind, approaching a problem from complementary angles.
“The feeds cut out around 5:30,” I admit reluctantly. “She was heading toward the side exit. Needed air, she said.”
“The side exit leads directly to the loading dock,” Aries says, leaning forward as much as his restraints allow. “Completely exposed to the access road. Anyone passing by would see her.”
His tone has shifted entirely—the provocateur replaced by the strategist I remember from childhood. His eyes are sharp, focused, all mockery set aside in favor of addressing this new threat.
“You’re worried about what…your backers,” he observes, reading my expression with uncomfortable accuracy. “You had to have someone backing this operation. Someone who has more of an interest in bringing down the family, not just little ole me.”
I hesitate before nodding. No point in denying what he’s already deduced. “They’ve approached her before. Warned her. Used her to send me messages about staying on schedule.”
“Fuck.” The single word contains volumes of understanding. “And you’re off schedule now, aren’t you? With me still alive. With whatever revenge you planned delayed by this...” He gestures to the cell around us. “Unexpected development.”
The assessment is accurate enough that I don’t bother confirming it. Instead, I turn to more pressing concerns.
“Is there any way out of this cell that I don’t know about?” Aries asks, chains clinking as he shifts to study the walls, ceiling, and floor. “Something you built in as a fail-safe?”
I eye him with suspicion. Sharing security details means giving him information he could use against me later—assuming we get out of this situation.
But if something has happened to Lilian...
“No other exits from the cell itself,” I say finally. “I designed it that way deliberately. One way in, one way out. Controlled access only.”
“What about the ventilation system?” He nods toward the ceiling vent. “Size, access points, where it leads?”
“Too small,” I dismiss. “Twelve-inch diameter. Even if we could reach it, neither of us would fit.”
“The door mechanism itself? Override protocols, manual releases?”
I shake my head. “Only from the outside. Or from the main security station upstairs.”
“Which we can’t access because we’re in here,” he concludes, frustration evident in his voice. “What about your phone? Can you call someone? Get help?”
Again, I hesitate. Bringing in outside help means exposing my operation, means potential interference with my carefully constructed plans. Means explaining why I have my twin brother chained in a cell in an abandoned warehouse.
But the alternative—remaining trapped while Lilian might be in danger—is unacceptable.
“Signal is weak in here,” I say, checking the phone again. “One bar at most. Not enough to maintain a call.”
“Texts?”
“I’ve tried. No response.”
Aries is silent for a moment, thinking. “What about the security system itself? You said it’s connected to your phone—can you override it remotely? Trigger an emergency protocol?”
“Only from the main security hub,” I explain. “The cell’s isolation is a feature, not a bug. It’s designed to be secure even if the main systems are compromised.”
“Smart for a prison,” Aries acknowledges grudgingly. “Not so smart when the warden gets locked inside.”
The observation would sting more if it weren’t so accurate. The irony isn’t lost on me—trapped by my own perfect security, potentially at the cost of Lilian’s safety.
“What about outside connections?” Aries presses. “Friends? Allies? Someone who might come looking when you don’t check in?”
I laugh harshly. “You think I have friends? After what they did to me in that place?”
“Everyone has someone,” he insists. “There must be someone who’d notice if both Lilian and you—well, me—disappeared.”
The question forces me to confront how completely I’ve isolated myself. How thoroughly I’ve avoided connections that could become vulnerabilities. How focused I’ve been on revenge at the expense of everything else. And how good of a job I’ve done at pushing everyone out of his/my life.
“No one,” I admit finally. “There’s no one.”
My phone display now reads 4:17 a.m.—nearly twelve hours since Lilian locked us in. Twelve hours of growing concern, of grudging cooperation with my twin, of increasingly desperate attempts to establish contact with the outside world.
“We need to call for help,” I say, the decision solidifying despite everything it will cost. “Even if it means exposing everything.”
Aries looks up sharply from where he’s been examining the door mechanism. “You’re willing to sacrifice your revenge? Everything you’ve worked for?”
The question hangs in the air between us, weighted with a decade of hatred, planning, and single-minded purpose. Am I willing to give it all up? The perfect retribution I’ve crafted, the justice I’ve pursued since escaping the institution?
“If something’s happened to her...” I can’t complete the thought aloud. Can’t articulate the hollow dread growing with each passing hour.
Aries studies me with something like genuine surprise in his expression. “You actually care about her.”
It’s not a question. Not a taunt. Just a recognition of a truth I’ve been fighting to deny.
“Emergency services would take too long,” I say, ignoring his observation. “And they’d ask too many questions. But there’s a burner phone in my desk upstairs with a direct line to someone who can get us out. Someone who won’t immediately involve authorities.”
The admission costs me. Using that line means exposing my operation to the very people I’ve been working to avoid—the backers who funded my revenge but who have their own agendas. People who would happily eliminate complications like Lilian if she’s become inconvenient.
People who might already have her.
“Once we’re out,” I continue, “I can access the surveillance systems, track her movements, figure out where?—”
A sound from the corridor interrupts me—footsteps approaching the cell. My body tenses instantly, hand moving to the Taser still tucked in my waistband. Aries shifts position too, chains arranged to give him maximum mobility despite the restraints.
The footsteps stop outside the door. A shadow appears in the observation window—too tall to be Lilian, too broad-shouldered. Male. Unknown.
The security panel beeps as a key card swipes across it. Green light. Access granted.
Aries and I exchange a single glance—a moment of unspoken coordination that comes from shared DNA, from years of moving as mirror images despite our hatred. I position myself to the left of the door, and he shifts to create a distraction. Whoever enters will face him first, giving me the opportunity to neutralize the threat.
The door slides open with a pneumatic hiss.
Drew Marshall stands in the doorway, the key card dangling from his fingers. His expression cycles rapidly from confusion to shock to something like reluctant amusement as he takes in the scene before him—identical twins in a prison cell, one restrained, one free, both bloody and disheveled.
“Hmm,” he says, twirling the key card between his fingers. “Well, isn’t this an unexpected surprise?”
Thank you for reading The Psychopaths.