Chapter 9
CALEB
“Maeve!” I take a step toward her, keeping my hands up. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Stay away from him. You’re fucking sick.” She thrusts the scissors in my direction, jabbing at the air.
The sharp tip catches the light, flashing like a warning.
I’m sick? She’s the one swinging scissors around like they’re a stuffed animal.
Also, where the hell is Sarah? I really should talk to her about letting just anyone in. Especially scissor wielding—although, beautiful—women.
Maeve shifts on her feet. “Move. Now.” Her eyes dart between me and Teddy, and she jabs the scissors at me once again, this time with more angst. “I want Teddy. Give him to me.”
No fear. No hesitation. Just fury.
What the hell is happening right now? Pretty sure I’m the one who saved Teddy, not poisoned him. Although . . . shit. Maybe she’s figured it out.
A lump forms in my throat. It’s very possible this has Asher’s fingerprints all over it. It’s been days since I woke up covered in blood. Progress is good, but this . . . whatever this is, is not good.
It’s far from good. It’s fucking terrible.
“Listen,” I say, lowering my hands. “Whatever it is you think I’ve done, there’s an explanation.”
I’ve been hoping that him showing up again is just some sort of nightmare, and I’m just, in fact, losing my mind. It really is like teetering on the edge of a tightrope. Either way, one wrong move, and I’m dead.
Fucking Asher. He’s really screwed me with this one, and I don’t even know what it is he’s done.
I glimpse Sarah’s face at the end of the hallway, her frown visible from here. I shake my head slightly—it’s fine—and she gives me a knowing nod, disappearing once again.
For now, everything is fine. I’ve got this handled. I think.
A muffled conversation drifts in from the waiting room. The faint clatter of a keyboard. A woman’s voice, a dog whining as though sensing the tension in the air. Normal sounds. Safe sounds. But in here, there’s only silence, suffocating silence.
Maeve continues to point the scissors at my chest as if she won’t hesitate to use them. “Here.” She throws a small box at me.
I catch it and turn it over, frowning as I inspect the glossy exterior. “What the hell is this?” I hold it up, giving it a hesitant shake.
Something inside shifts with a dull, lifeless thump. Like organs in a cooler.
Whatever’s in there . . . it can’t be good. I know that much.
“Open it,” she says, twisting the scissors in the air like she’s warming up for the grand finale.
Jesus Christ, I get it. She’s crazy. And I’m the one with the serial killer alter ego. What’s her excuse?
A cold sweat slides down my back. I don’t want to open it. Every instinct tells me to drop it, to not know what’s inside.
Sucking in a breath through my clenched teeth, I flip the lid open. “Oh, fuck.”
The stench punches me in the nose first, thick and putrid, sinking into my sinuses like a physical weight. The box slips from my hands, the contents tumbling onto the tile. They land with a wet, heavy thud, skin slapping the cold floor.
A sickly stench, sharp and thick coats my tongue. I choke on it, staggering back, and clamping a hand over my mouth.
I swallow hard, but the bile is already rising. “And I’m the sick one? What the fuck are those?”
Maeve raises an eyebrow. “Fingers.”
“I know they’re fucking fingers, Maeve. But why do you have them in a box like some sort of keepsake?”
Jesus. They’re just lying there, like grotesque little aliens against the white tiles, swollen, bloodless, the ridges of skin a pale yellow under the harsh fluorescents above.
They’re too human. Too real. And they’re at my feet.
So fucking gross.
Maeve’s grip tightens and loosens around the scissors as if she can’t decide whether to stab me or drop them altogether. She glances at the escaped digits, her breath hitching. Her lips part, a word forming, but no sound comes out.
Finally, she glances back at me. “You . . . you sent them to me at work.” The words are barely above a whisper, but they’re loud enough.
“I did what now?” A laugh bubbles up in my chest. “Oh, this is just fantastic. Who put you up to this? Was it Sarah?”
“Your receptionist?”
“Yeah, her. Is this her way of trying to get some time off? Because it’s not going to work.” I shake my head, blowing out a breath. “Hilarious, really fucking funny.”
Maeve hasn’t moved from her position by the doorway, and I’m still being held hostage by a pair of scissors.
My grin falters. I sniff, blinking slowly.
The fingers are fake. Right? Some fucked-up prank. But, if that were the case, Maeve would be laughing by now. Wouldn’t she?
And Maeve very much isn’t laughing. If anything, she looks downright ill.
“Wait.” I pinch the bridge of my nose, massaging the tender spot, and hold up my other hand. “Are those things fucking real?”
Acid burns my throat, just as Asher makes himself known. The sinister laugh. The taunting tsk tsk, the sound of his patronising tone vibrating inside my skull.
“Weak. Always so weak, Caleb. They’re just fingers. You have them. Maeve has them. Terry has less of them.”
Brilliant. Just fingers. Of course. How silly of me.
Tie me up and lock me away, because what in the actual fuck?
And who the hell is Terry?
I squeeze my eyes shut. This can’t be happening. If I could, I’d curl up into a ball and become invisible. Because right now, I’m anything but. I’m centre stage with the bright light shining down on me like I’m about to entertain a crowd of thousands.
No fucking thanks.
“Get your shit together. You have company.”
My eyes fly open, and I scrub my hands over my face.
Maeve will certainly think I’m crazy now. Although, I’m not the one who brought in two severed fingers in a box.
“You don’t remember?” Maeve says, her voice dragging me back into my moment from hell. She takes a small step backwards, weariness creeping into her expression. “Last night . . . you showed up at the bar. Told Terry you would break every bone in his hands.”
Again, who the fuck is Terry? I don’t know a Terry.
Would she believe me if I pinkie-promised her? Swore on her life? I don’t remember doing any of that.
But the box is the elephant in the room, and Maeve’s disgust is written all over her face. It guts me more than the sight of those fingers ever can.
This isn’t just a message for her, it’s a message for me. Asher’s way of reminding me I can never escape him, and he can, in fact, infiltrate all aspects of my life.
I clear my throat, but it comes out rough, like I’ve swallowed glass. My fingers twitch at my sides, and I force them into fists.
Focus. Control. Stay normal.
“Right. That.” The words stick to the roof of my mouth. “It’s possible I . . . wasn’t quite myself last night.”
What the hell else am I supposed to say? What’s the point in trying to explain? She’ll never believe me. If I told her the truth—that someone else was driving my body last night—she’ll think I’m insane.
Maybe I am. Maybe I’ve finally lost whatever thin grip I had on reality, if I even had a grip on it at all.
How do you tell someone you have two personalities and one of them is, in fact, a psychopathic arsehole.
“Watch your mouth.”
“Dick,” I say under my breath, running a hand through my hair, tugging at the strands.
“What?” Maeve frowns, those damn scissors still glaring at me like I’m the deranged one here.
Which, I guess, technically I am. But she doesn’t even know the half of it.
I shake my head. “Nothing—look, Maeve,” I say, trying to keep my voice calm and reasonable considering I’m on the opposite end of a sharp instrument right now. “I know this looks bad. Really bad. Like, severed-fingers-in-a-box kind of bad. But I swear to you, I have no memory of doing any of this. Besides, we don’t know for sure they’re Terry’s fingers, right?”
Maeve’s hand continues to shake, and she frowns, her focus dropping to the severed digits once again. “Well . . . no. I just thought?—”
“I’d hacked someone up last night.” I raise an eyebrow. “Don’t you think I’d remember something like that? That’s not exactly the kind of thing that slips your mind. And second, Teddy here is exhibit A in my defence.”
Teddy chooses that moment to let out a pitiful whine from behind me. Great timing, buddy.
Maeve glances at her baby. A flicker of doubt crosses her face, and her grip on the scissors loosens slightly.
“It’s just too much of a coincidence. If it wasn’t you . . .” She rubs at her forehead, as if trying to piece everything together. “And if the fingers aren’t Terry’s . . .” The words trail off, but the confusion remains.
It’s almost a relief.
Almost.
I gesture to the fluffy traitor behind me, who’s now wagging his tail like we’re all just having a jolly good time. “If I was some kind of violent maniac, why would I have nursed this fur-ball back to health? Doesn’t exactly scream ‘deranged finger-chopper,’ now does it? After I, you know, dropped you home last night, I came straight back here.”
Now that’s a lie. What my body did last night is far beyond my memory, buried deep down in whatever fucked up place Asher houses his.
I really should be more concerned.
Maeve bites her bottom lip, drawing my attention to the way her teeth dig into the plump flesh. “Well,” she says, her focus finding Teddy once again. “He does look better.”
“Right?” A small chuckle escapes me. “So . . . do you think, maybe, you could put those scissors down? I think we’ve established they’re not needed.”
Her frown deepens, and she glances at the sharp object in her hand as though she doesn’t quite remember how it got there. “Yeah . . . sorry. I think I’m losing it.” She places the scissors back on the bench, then wraps her arms around her waist, shaking her head slightly.
Shit. This is gaslighting at its best. I’ve spent so much time hating Asher for his manipulation, and here I am, doing exactly that. All so I don’t out myself as a lost cause.
But, what’s my other option?
I kneel on one knee and open the cage where Teddy is whining. He nudges my hand with his wet nose, and I reach for him, giving him a quick scratch behind the ears.
Maeve stiffens, her eyes not quite meeting mine, while Teddy’s little doggy eyes seem to bore into my soul.
Can dogs sense evil alter egos? Is this how I get outed as a potential puppy poisoner? By man’s best friend turning into nature’s own lie detector?
Maeve takes a tentative step closer. Then another. Until she’s right there, eyeing me like some sort of science experiment. Swiftly, she snatches Teddy from my grasp, cuddling him close to her chest.
“Hey, boy,” she murmurs into his fur. “I missed you so much.”
Holding my breath, I scoop up the fingers and place them back into the box, snapping the lid shut. “I think these are yours,” I say, holding the item out to Maeve.
She eyes the box as though it’s going to grow legs and pounce on her like a rogue spider. I thrust it at her.
I’m not fucking keeping them. I have enough of my own secrets to protect, and hiding a box of fingers isn’t one of them, even though, physically I did, in fact, chop them off.
This is some real horror movie type shit.
Finally, Maeve snatches the box from my hands and steps back. Way back. She grips the box tighter, her eyes narrowing. Something flickers behind them. Is it doubt? Hope? Does she regret not stabbing me when she had the chance?
It’s gone too fast for me to grab onto it.
“Just . . . stay away from me,” she says, hugging Teddy closer. “Please, Caleb. I won’t tell anyone, I swear.”
The look in her eyes—fear, betrayal, disgust—cuts deeper than her words ever will.
She still thinks it was me.
All I can do is nod.
If I tell her the truth, that I’m not the man she thinks I am, that I’m not entirely sure I’m a man at all, she’ll think even less of me. If that’s even possible.
Besides, she’s already decided. She’s safer without me anywhere near her. And that’s true. I don’t know what Asher is capable of when it comes to her.
“Goodbye, Caleb,” she whispers, whipping around and storming from the room, her dark hair trailing behind her until she disappears.
I slump against the table, my hands trembling as I bury my face in them. The silence in the room is deafening, Maeve’s absence a physical weight pressing down on my chest.
If I sleep tonight, will I wake up with even more blood on my hands?
“Oh, don’t look so heartbroken, Caleb,” Asher murmurs, humour in his tone. “She’ll come around. She just needs to understand. To see what we’re capable of, what we can do for her.” A pause. Like he’s savouring this moment by torturing me further. “ You should be thanking me. You know she’s the only one who can truly understand us.”
I exhale, the weight of Asher’s words sinking in.
The scariest part?
I think he’s right.