Sick Twisted Minds (Cruel Black Hearts Book 3)

by Candace Wondrak

  The minutes dragged on slowly. Time crawled to a halt, and I felt sweat accumulating on my back. This was going to be an awful night. I glanced at Killian, finding him staring at Stella, though behind the smile he wore, I could tell he was strained. None of us knew exactly how she’d react to this, but it was something we had to do.

  When Ed was finished cleaning up, he came back around the couch, kneeling between Stella and the coffee table, his hands on her knees, blue eyes expectant and kind. Genuinely kind. I doubted I could ever give her a similar look. “Stella,” he said, “there is something I wanted to talk to you about tonight. Something important.”

  “Of course,” she said, not truly understanding his words. “Anything. No more secrets between us.”

  I got up, unable to sit still while this happened. I started pacing the length of the room, in spite of myself. I hated how nervous I felt. These were not feelings I was used to.

  Killian turned to face her as she asked, “What’s wrong? Lincoln already told me about his family wanting him to do a job for them. If he has to do it, he has to do it. I’m okay with it. I’ll miss him, but…” She trailed off when she saw the look on Ed’s face. “It’s not that, is it? It’s something else?”

  “Has anything felt different to you lately?” Ed asked, practically begging her to come to the realization herself.

  “I…” She paused, and just by the creasing of her eyebrows, I knew Ed had hit the mark. “Actually, yes, but I—”

  “And you haven’t seen Callie in how long?” Ed said.

  “I…I don’t remember exactly. What does this have to do with anything? We’re not here to talk about Callie, are we? You guys didn’t…you didn’t kill her, did you?” Stella inhaled sharply, the thought of one of us killing her friend too much for her to bear.

  Ed stood, glancing to me. “Get the bottle.”

  I knew which bottle he meant. A small orange bottle. It took me a few minutes to find it. It had wound up back in the bottom cabinet drawer in the bathroom, and I handed it to Ed when I returned. Stella had gotten to her feet while I was gone, and she shook her head at us.

  “You guys aren’t making any sense. I told you before, those are Callie’s…” Her firm voice wavered at the end, and I hoped that meant she was coming to the only conclusion she could.

  “These aren’t Callie’s,” Ed said, offering her the bottle after turning it so she could view the name on the prescription. “They’re yours, Stella. And it looks like you haven’t taken any.”

  “I don’t remember getting that,” she said, glancing at me and then Killian. “Are you sure—”

  “These are yours,” Ed said again. “These are antipsychotics.”

  Stella continued to shake her head, moving around us and heading into the hallway. “I don’t know what game you guys are playing, but…” Her feet stopped, and she glanced on the floor, the small space between the kitchen and the living room.

  The three of us inched toward her, as if we approached a wild animal and not the woman we all loved. Ed continued, “They’re most commonly used to treat schizophrenia. I don’t know if that’s what you have, but—”

  “No!” She rose her voice, swatting an arm through the air as if she was batting away a fly. Trying to deflect his words. “I don’t have anything! I don’t.”

  “Stella,” I spoke, moving closer to her. Her eyes were vacant, almost as if she wasn’t in her body, like her mind was elsewhere, currently lost in a sea of emotions and truth. “You haven’t seen Callie because…” I glanced at Ed and got a nod. Behind him, Killian frowned. None of us were enjoying this part. This was torture. “Because she’s dead.”

  “You…”

  “We didn’t kill her,” Killian spoke over her. “You did.”

  Stella’s mouth fell open, as if she thought about arguing, about yelling at us, but no words came out. Not even a croak of a sound. The laughter that had gripped her earlier, the laughter so strong it had made her eyes tear up, was long gone now. “I didn’t,” she whispered after a long minute. Her body started to tremble as she echoed, “I…I didn’t…” As she blinked, her stare grew watery. She stared at her own hands, turning her palms upward, as if they held the answers. Maybe they did. And then, before any of us could catch her, she fell to her knees on the floor, her body wracked with sobs.

  Forget about her heart breaking. Mine was broken now, watching her fall apart. As cold and as cruel as I was, I didn’t want to see Stella like this. I didn’t want to be a part of this. I wanted everything to be okay, wanted it all to be how it was before. Surely we could all go back, rewind time somehow and…

  No.

  There was no coming back from this.

  Chapter Thirteen - Stella

  I was in the kitchen, putting away the dishes from the dishwasher. I just threw everything inside, even the big kitchen knives that said they needed to be hand washed. Who had time for that? I had articles and blog posts to write, and comments on my last post to reply to. I had a busy night ahead of me, while Callie was getting ready to go out and party it up like we were still in college.

  Was I jealous of her? Maybe. She seemed to have a plethora of friends, always going out and having fun. She’d stopped inviting me a long time ago, mostly because she knew I’d always turn her down. Why waste the energy in asking me in the first place?

  “You know,” Callie said, moving to lean on the counter opposite me, “you can’t live the rest of your life like this.” She wore a tight, form-fitting shirt that hugged her body, showing off her cleavage, which was much more impressive than mine. Sparkling necklaces hugged her throat, her legs clad in jeans she’d have to peel off in the morning, after she got through her hangover.

  I could’ve said a lot of things to her, then. I could’ve told her that she couldn’t, either. That we weren’t in college anymore. We were twenty-five, adults. We shouldn’t go out partying every night like it was 1999 and the world was going to end.

  But I didn’t. I just said, “Okay.” I didn’t really care what she said. She was my friend, but sometimes she was mean. I didn’t like her when she was mean; I’d learned it was best to agree with whatever she said until she went away.

  People usually went away from me, anyway. I didn’t know why she’d stuck around for so long. I gave her nothing, and all she did was nag at me.

  “You might be a journalist now,” Callie referenced my new-ish job at the Tribune, “but you won’t go anywhere in life working part-time at the local paper. Who the hell wants to read about serial killers every week, anyway? People want real news, not your subjective stuff.”

  My stuff, as she called it, was not subjective. I got my facts from various studies and past serial killer cases. Still, when I heard her mention my writing, I froze above the dishwasher, my hand gripping one of the kitchen knives.

  I hated it when my writing was insulted. I got enough of that from my parents, from my precious little sister. I didn’t need to hear it from Callie, too.

  “Stella, don’t take this the wrong way, but—” Callie moved around the island, until she stood near me. “—you kind of freak me out with your weird obsession. Some days I worry you’ll turn into one of those serial killers you’re writing about. I mean, it’s just weird. I’ve talked to your mother about it, and—”

  I turned to face her, my ears not hearing anything after the word mother. She’d talked to my mother about me? What in the world gave her any right to do that? Callie knew how awful my relationship was with my family, so why would she do something like that? How dare she.

  “—with your diagnosis, we both think it’d be better for you to write about something else, and to find another job. Plus that boss of yours, Killian? He seems like a douchebag.”

  Why did other people always think it was right to tell me what to do? Why bring up my diagnosis at all? What the hell did any of that have to do with this? This was about my writing, my enjoyment of it—the one thing in my entire life that I actually genuinely took pl
easure in—and killing it. Quashing it under her heels. This was about making me feel small and insignificant.

  This was it. This was all I could take, because I was so tired of listening to everyone go on and on about how they knew what was best for me. I knew what was best for me, and serial killers were it. Why would life not let me have a single good thing?

  Anger coursed through me, and for a moment, all I saw was red.

  Callie stepped back, her hand quickly shooting up to her throat. Between her fingers, soaking the necklaces, blood seeped out. I blinked, watching her stumble backwards, shaking her head at me, her lips parting as she said, “You…” The word sounded liquidy, disgusting.

  I didn’t even remember doing it. I didn’t remember lashing out my arm, the one still holding onto the knife. Even though I faced her, I didn’t know she was so close. I didn’t think I’d touch her, let alone slice her neck wide open.

  I might’ve thought about murder before, but I didn’t want to commit one…did I?

  No, not when it was Callie. She might’ve been bitchy sometimes, but she was the only one I had. If she left me, I’d be completely and utterly alone, and I couldn’t have that. I wasn’t strong enough to be alone.

  Her pressure must not have been tight enough, for blood now coated her chest. She fell to the floor, reaching for her purse on the island. Both she and the purse fell to the linoleum, the space between the kitchen and the living room. I trailed her, standing at her feet, watching as she tried getting her phone.

  My gaze fell to the knife I still held in my hand, its stainless-steel dripping crimson. I did this. I did this to Callie. What kind of monster was I? How could I live with myself after this? I met her frantic, worried eyes, their brown depths losing their light as blood drained on the floor. She must’ve been too lightheaded to grip her phone, for her body started to relax as she gazed up at me, blood oozing between her fingers.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, my voice sounding emotionless. “I didn’t mean to.” It was like something shut off in me then, something inside clicking off to save my mind from the trauma. It was like I stood back and let my body do whatever it wanted, whatever it had to.

  Callie couldn’t live. She had to die now, otherwise I’d be locked up.

  I didn’t want to be locked up, didn’t want to hear my mother tell me I told you so.

  I barely heard my own voice whisper a soft “Goodbye” as I watched the life drain out of her eyes. Callie’s body relaxed on the floor, and I stood there for a bit, watching the blood flow. What a mess.

  Like a robot, I moved to the sink, dropping the knife inside it. Its steel clattered and clanged, noise to my ears. I glanced outside, at the darkening sky. Deep down, I knew what I had to do.

  So I did it.

  I put Callie in one of her favorite jackets, tore off her heels, and then helped her out of the nearest window, plopping her body on the grass. It was hard, mostly because she weighed more than me, but my body felt stronger than it had before. Or maybe it was the adrenaline. Or…perhaps I was capable of more than I ever knew.

  I got the shovel out of the garage, thankful for the fence separating the houses beside ours. They were all one-story homes, so no one would glance out of their window and see what I was doing.

  Digging a grave. A grave in the grass right beside our house. Tomorrow I’d go out and get mulch and flowers. I’d make it pretty. I’d water the flowers every day. I’d never forget. Not this.

  I returned the shovel to its spot on the garage wall after a while. Everything was neat and orderly, but that tidiness was shattered when I returned to the kitchen and saw the blood on the floor. I couldn’t leave that. It was way too big of a mess.

  It took me hours, and one trip to the nearest twenty-four-hour convenience store, but I managed to clean it up. Most of it. One tiny spot remained on the carpet, and no matter how I scrubbed, it would not come out. Maybe I’d Google it in the morning.

  Or maybe not.

  It was well into the early morning of the next calendar day when I dragged myself into the bathroom and showered, washing away all of the blood that had gotten on me when I was on my hands and knees cleaning. I watched the water swirl around the drain, pink until it ran clear, and I let my mind go blank. It wasn’t too hard.

  When I stepped out of the shower, I spotted her toothbrush, her towel, and almost in a trance, I went to throw them both out. Then I reached into my drawer in the vanity and went for the orange bottle out of habit. I’d just gotten them refilled, hadn’t I?

  I stared at the pills inside the container, my mind becoming firm. No, I wasn’t going to take them, I decided as I dropped the container in the bottommost drawer of the vanity. I was happier before—wasn’t I?

  I could be happy again…couldn’t I? Maybe not. Maybe this was it for me, going through my life like this. I wanted more, though. I wanted to be normal. I didn’t want to feel like a waste of skin and space.

  Instead of going to my bed, I went into the living room and sat on the couch. I collapsed on a pillow. Sometime during the early hours of dawn, I must’ve fallen asleep, because the next thing I knew, when I opened them it was daylight. I yawned, sitting up and stretching. God, my body felt worse for wear, almost like I’d run a marathon the day before.

  What the hell did I do yesterday? I…couldn’t really remember.

  I lugged my body off the couch, stopping in the kitchen. My nose smelled something weird, but I dismissed when I saw the note on the fridge. Didn’t want to wake you, it said. Eat something. From Callie.

  She was right, though. I usually did forget to eat.

  I didn’t have time to make something, because I had to run to work. I was going to be late if I didn’t get a move on, so I threw on some clothes, grabbed my laptop, and hurried to the Tribune. Just another day, like any other.

  Just another day.

  When I got home that night, Callie was waiting for me in the bathroom, fixing her earrings. Her brown eyes locked with mine, and she smiled. I decided to make dinner that night, since she wasn’t going out. Nothing fancy.

  I went to preheat the oven, but I froze when I saw something in the sink. A knife with…was that blood? My eyebrows went together, and I went to pick it up, studying it in the afternoon light.

  “What’s that?” Callie came out of the hallway, leaning on the island.

  It took me a moment to say, “I don’t know.” With a shrug, I put it in the empty dishwasher.

  Just another day, indeed.

  Chapter Fourteen - Stella

  My memories came rushing back to me, a storm surge I could not fight against, could not even stand against. Before I knew what I was doing, I had fallen to the floor, my hands shaking. My breath came up short; it was like I couldn’t take a lungful of air no matter how hard I tried to.

  These hands had killed Callie.

  These hands had killed my best friend.

  I was a broken, pathetic human being. I was the worst kind of person there was. How could I have done all of that and gone on like nothing happened? Decided to just stop taking my pills and let my mind do whatever it wanted?

  I was horrible. I deserved to be put in jail. I was…I was so much more broken than I ever realized, which was saying something.

  Tears started to fall, and I didn’t bother trying to stop them. I cried like a little girl, even though I was the farthest thing from it. I had taken my friend’s life, buried her in the backyard, and gone on as if nothing had happened. It took a special kind of monster to do something like that. The men around me were killers in their own right; Edward and Lincoln had thought they introduced me to their world the night they gave me Destiny, but she wasn’t my first.

  Callie was.

  Callie was my first kill, and unlike Destiny, I regretted it immensely.

  “I didn’t mean to,” I spoke through my tears, my cheeks wet. I looked up at the guys, at Lincoln, at Edward, at Killian. None of them watched me with judgement; none of them hated me for what I di
d, but they should. Me killing Callie was just like Lincoln killing Edward. It shouldn’t have happened. There were lines people shouldn’t cross.

  Edward knelt down before me, pulling me into his arms. Into a hug. A show of comfort, warmth I didn’t deserve. I was a monster. The worst kind. “It’s okay,” he cooed, stroking my back, trying to get me to calm down.

  How could he say it was okay? How could he possibly say it was okay that I killed Callie? It wasn’t. It was wrong. I deserved to be put into the ground. Shot. Something. Something to punish me.

  “It was an accident,” I cried into his shoulder. “I didn’t mean to do it…” I sniffed, hating that I felt like this. Not feeling anything was better than this, wasn’t it? Shutting off my emotions, living life like a robot, had to be better than this. This was agony.

  The other two knelt around me; I could feel their hands on my back, my arms. Lincoln and Killian wanted me to feel better too, but how selfish was that? I shouldn’t feel better. I should feel horrible. I was horrible.

  I’d been a killer for months without realizing it.

  How the hell was I supposed to live with myself knowing the truth about what I’d done?

  I pushed away from them all, clumsily getting to my feet. I stumbled my way through the kitchen, feeling my stomach churn at the sight of the stain in the carpet, something I’d never noticed before. All of those times I had the sense of déjà vu—all of those times when I felt sick, when I’d gone into Callie’s room and wondered why she’d leave her phone…it was just my mind slowly putting the pieces back together.

  I was the one who plugged Callie’s phone in. I was the one who did it all. Took care of the yard, paid the bills with the money her parents were sending her. It was easy to forge a check. All those times, all those memories, blocked and twisted, some erased from my mind completely.