Page 63 of The Art of Being a Psychopath

“I’m not happy that you went through my phone,” I said, ignoring his last comment. “Even if it was to help.” I still wanted to berate him, but my anger was starting to wane.

In response, he took his phone out of the inside pocket of his jacket and handed it to me.

“You can go through mine if it makes you feel better.”

“It wouldn’t,” I said, and then an idea struck me. “But what’s your passcode?” If I could look through his contacts and messages, I could see if there was anything from S.K.A.M., provided he hadn’t deleted it.

“It’s four, two, nine, three,” he told me with confidence.

I tapped the numbers on the screen and began checking his messages and emails. But after going through his phone with a fine-tooth comb, I found nothing, so I placed it in the centre of the console and sat back.

“Happy?” he asked.

“No. You probably have multiple phones.”

“I am never going to win, am I?” He sighed.

“And I’m never gonna drop my guard,” I replied.

We pulled up outside my house about twenty minutes later, and Alex shut off the engine and grabbed his phone from where I’d left it on the console. He had no intention of dropping me at the kerb and driving away, that was clear. He was going to get out and walk me to my door.

“I’ll be fine,” I said. “You don’t have to get out.” But he just scoffed and opened his door.

I got out of the car, still holding the knife and feeling a little steadier on my feet now.

“You can leave me here, I can make it to my door just fine on my own,” I said, but he didn’t listen, just gestured to the path that our little row of houses shared and said, “After you.”

I was done arguing, so I huffed and walked ahead, rooting through my bag for my front door key. Once we reached my front step, I turned and said, “I’ve got it from here.” Expecting him to leave, but he didn’t.

“I’ll leave when you’re inside your house and this door is locked,” he stated firmly.

I put the key in the lock.

Turned it and pushed the door open.

And what I saw made me cry out as my living room came into view.

CHAPTER

TWENTY-SIX

EMMA

YOU’RE NEXT.

Those two words were spray-painted on my living room wall. Huge red letters like something from a horror movie. The paint on each letter had dripped downwards before drying, making them look like macabre blood stains.

The knife I’d been holding fell from my hand and clattered to the floor as every part of me froze in fear. He’d been here, again. It seemed this ghost of a man could enter my home any goddamn time he liked, and I had no fucking control over it. I’d been violated, again, and there was nothing I could do to stop it. Nowhere was safe for me anymore.

“What the fuck?” Alex growled from behind, his voice full of unbridled fury. “What the fucking hell is this?” And then, without waiting for me to speak, he marched past me into my house.

This was his first time seeing first-hand what S.K.A.M. was doing to me, and experiencing the effect it had when you saw it... to some extent, anyway. He could never feel the same level of fear and utter devastation that I felt. That any woman felt, living in a world where we always had to be on our guard.

Alex stood in front of the words, and I could see him fisting his hands, like he wanted to punch something. His breaths came in short, sharp pants of disbelief.

He turned to look at me, and with a face like thunder, he said, “He did this, didn’t he? This is the kind of fucked-up shit you’ve had to deal with.”

I just nodded mutely, discreetly reaching my hand out to touch the wall beside me and steady myself.