Page 156 of Shadowface

Only Talia remains, with Misty pretending to be lifeless on the ground, and Summer hiding close by, watching this all unfold.

Dr. Garcia studies me briefly and says, “Serve her to him.”

She shuffles away because Dr. Garcia can’t stand the next part—the part where we remove the eyes.

Misty remains motionless, almost like she is dead. I lose track of time, staring at her, waiting for the cave to empty, until gentle hands clasp mine.

“Let’s take her home,” Summer whispers.

CHAPTER

FORTY-THREE

LINCOLN

I’m an expert on emotions. I’ve been fascinated by them my entire existence. Studying them became my way of experiencing something I couldn’t otherwise have. Not the same way normal people do.

I became obsessed with understanding every single one of them to the point I could write an entire textbook on the subject. Expertly crafting them, mirroring others’ expressions when they are experiencing grief or joy. Desperately trying to understand them. Girls crying in my office, batting their eyes at me, falling for me because they thought I was such a good listener.

Now that they are unlocked, I have zero control over them. Every emotion in the human brain overwhelms me.

Summer’s platinum hair is tied up in a messy bun as she sleeps in the crook of my arm. The overwhelming love I have for her threatens to eat me from the inside out, and the hatred for her still simmers in my blood, haunting me like an evil spirit.

Split, as Summer calls him, is a deep, guttural hatred that vibrates in my chest. He is a palpable pain that radiates outward; even as I hold him close, a simmering rage flickers beneath the surface of his skin when I watch her.

Then, when she grimaces in her sleep, her tiny brow furrowing, I can’t help but think she’s so fucking cute and my love for her overtakes it. I hope one day that hatred can go away, but that’s something I need to work on.

She’s still sleeping as I open my laptop and write the experiences of my transformation from the night before.

I take a minute to identify and describe each emotion as they come rushing in, form, and settle within my psyche.

Guilt is what I’m focusing on right now. Guilt for stealing Summer’s innocence when she was young, for killing the innocent women Dr. Garcia left for me as bait, and Grant…

Well, he deserved it and, obviously, so did her father.

Summer’s innocence is something I can never give back to her, and I had no right to take it the way I did. She was so young, breakable and perfect, and I needed to soil her. I needed her to be as dark as I was.

Which I may have succeeded at.

Otherwise, I’m very much the same person I was before. I still maintain an objective world view, the same outlook, same dreams, same drive and motivation. With each passing day, I continue to identify myself as Lincoln Kennedy. Mikael Peters is gone, his identity being blended into mine, making me complete. Making me human in a way I wasn’t before.

Summer starts to stir beside me, so I shut my computer and slide under the blankets to join her. Once we got home last night, I changed her into one of my shirts, put her to bed, and kept her underwear off so I could have easy access to what’s mine. I also tended to Misty, cleaned her up and made her as comfortable as possible and, more importantly, did my best to keep her alive.

Summer smells like me, and I can’t help but run my tongue down her stomach. She runs her fingers through my hair as I pleasure her while she slowly wakes up. “Mmm. Lincoln, what are you doing?”

She slides the blankets down so she can see me, and I peer up at her. “Tasting you, baby. You taste so fucking good.” I press a kiss over her mark. “Everyone thinks you’re dead, Summer. So now I can do whatever I want with you. I own you now.”

She trembles when my hands move to her waist, and I pause as she peers down at me, intrigued.

Her bright blue eyes, full of love, curiosity, and fear, but no remorse.

No, my little liar is incapable of it. Now I need to see if she really does have deadly tendencies.

She is the true descendent of the scribe—I can see it inside her, flashing in the flicker in her eyes. The once-in-a-generation psychopath. If she ever makes a kill, I’m unsure if I can bring her back from what that will do to her. Yet she trembles at my words…

Fascinating.

So the question remains, is psychopathy hereditary? In Summer’s case, she had a traumatic event. Watching her father murder someone certainly did shape her, and watching my mother die at his hand certainly shaped me. But my hypothesis is a fourteen-year-old would understand that watching her father kill someone in her basement is not normal.