Page 70 of The Art of Being a Psychopath

My initial relief at being in her building turned to disappointment and then irritation.

What the hell was I going to do now?

I didn’t have a spare key for Grace’s place and I couldn’t afford a hotel room.

“Come back to mine,” Alex said, and when he saw my horror at the thought of going back to that room, where I’d hallucinated in the worst way and spent the grimmest hours recovering from whatever the fuck had happened to me, he added, “You don’t have to stay in the same room. I have lots of bedrooms you can choose from.”

A night spent in the park on a bench didn’t sound appealing.

I was all out of options

I had no one else to turn to.

Except him.

“Okay,” I said in a small voice, and then I felt guilty because he was doing everything in his power to help me. “Thank you,” I added.

“I just want to help you, Emma,” he replied. “I’ll always want to help you.”

CHAPTER

TWENTY-EIGHT

EMMA

We arrived back at Alex’s estate later that day, and he carried my case in for me, telling his footman, who was waiting at the door, “I’ll take the case up to Emma’s room later. And we’ll get our own drinks. Thank you, Clive.”

He was making it clear that no one else would touch my things or tamper with anything. It was his way of letting me know I was safe.

But I still had my guard up.

I had to stay alert, because nowhere felt safe to me anymore.

S.K.A.M. had told me I was next, but I had no intention of being hung on a wall as his next piece of fucked-up art. It didn’t stop my mind from going on a crazy journey of what could happen, though.

We entered the foyer, and Alex directed me to a drawing room to the right. I followed him, clutching my bag tightly as I scanned the hallway for any signs of danger, before walking in behind him. The room was wood-panelled, like a gentleman’s smoking room from days gone by. It had a snug and cosy feel, which was in stark contrast to my current erratically fearful state of mind.

On the far wall was a huge fireplace with a roaring fire that billowed heat out into the room. It felt like it was beckoning me in with its promises of warmth and security. Directly above the fireplace was a stunning landscape painting that I couldn’t help but get lost in, with its rolling hills, lush greenery and stormy, atmospheric skies.

“It’s a Constable,” Alex remarked when he saw me looking at it, giving me the name of the artist as he walked over to a side table full of glasses and drinks bottles.

“Wow,” I replied. I knew who Constable was. I also knew how much his works sold for. “Is it a reprint?”

“No. It’s an original.”

“Holy shit,” I couldn’t help but blurt out. “I bet that cost a bit.”

Alex hummed in thought.

“About twenty million, I think.”

“And you’ve hung it over an open fire?”

“It gets cold in here.” He shrugged. “And it’s well insured.”

I had no words.

So, he could be reckless.