Page 47 of The Art of Being a Psychopath

Where are you?

I wasn’t about to tell him that I was sheltering from the rain in a filthy doorway, trying to work out how many coffee shops I’d need to visit in order to jump from one to another to stay warm and out of the wind and rain for the next five or six hours.

But he wasn’t giving up.

Tell me where you are, and I’ll come and get you.

I had to shut this down.

Honestly, I’m fine. Good luck with the article.

But it wasn’t enough.

Stay where you are. I’m on my way.

I huffed in frustration and put my phone back into my bag. Then I started walking, keeping my head down so the rain wouldn’t get in my eyes. I kept a steady pace, striding down the street, dodging the people coming towards me as they walked past with purpose. They had somewhere to be. I didn’t.

After about ten minutes of walking, I remembered there was a nice, and more importantly, cheap coffee shop down a side street ahead of me, and I turned down that street, ready to head inside and find some solace in my day from hell. But when I approached the building, I saw it was empty. I don’t know why I rattled the door, I knew it’d be locked. The sign on the door said closed, and inside, it looked as if they’d closed down for good. I cupped my hands against the dirty glass to peer inside. The tables had no chairs, the counter was bare, and there were piles of letters and leaflets on the other side of the door. No one had been here for a long time.

“Fuck. Why is everything closed down?” I muttered to myself, banging my fist on the glass to nobody in particular. But I knew why they were closed. There was a cost of living crisis going on, and businesses were suffering. We all were. Empty shops in a town like this wasn’t uncommon these days. If S.K.A.M. were here, he’d make a poem about it. Then probably gouge my eyes out for working for Mr. Gold and enabling the patriarchy for so long.

Just then, I heard the screech of car tyres, and I turned to see a black Bentley pull into the little street I was on and come to a halt beside me.

I stood still, frozen to the spot as I stared at the car. And when the driver’s door opened and Alex Kingston got out, my jaw dropped to the floor.

“What the fuck, Emma,” he said, charging over to me as he took his suit jacket off. “You’re fucking soaked. Here. Put this on.” He draped his jacket on my shoulders and put his arm around me, rubbing the top of my arm like he was trying to warm me up. “You’re shivering. Come on. Get in the car.”

I didn’t know what to say at first. I was paralysed and stunned into silence. But I managed to pick my jaw off the floor, and ask, “How did you find me?”

“Can you get in the car first and then we can talk?” He was starting to get wet himself, the rain leaving fat, wet splodges on his crisp, white shirt. “Please?” he added, pulling me towards the passenger side of the car.

I wanted to escape the cold rain, but I didn’t want to get into the car.

“I’m heading home,” I told him. “I don’t need a lift. I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine. Look how wet you are. And you’re shivering. Please, just get in before you catch your death out here. I can take you wherever you need to go.”

“I don’t want to go anywhere,” I said, conscious that I sounded like a petulant child, but I didn’t care. Then I peered at him, flashes of the murder scene I’d witnessed that morning scorching my brain, making me feel sick with fear. “How do I know I can trust you?” I asked, because at that moment, I didn’t know who the hell this man was. Not really. For all I knew, he could be S.K.A.M.

“Have I ever given you a reason not to trust me?” he replied, looking startled and a little hurt.

He’d just shown up out of nowhere and tracked me down with whatever illegal means he had at his disposal, so in all honesty, I couldn’t say that I did.

“I don’t know you. And I’m not in the habit of getting into cars with strangers.”

Or psycho killers, for that matter.

“I’m not a stranger, Emma. You know who I am. But here...” He took his watch off his wrist and handing it to me. “It’s a Patek Philippe. Worth a shitload of money. But you can hold onto it because I trust you. Do you think you can trust me enough to get in the car?”

Despite my reservations, I took hold of it, and the metal that’d been on his wrist warmed my freezing cold hands.

“I’d prefer a knife or a gun,” I replied, staring down at it.

“Why the hell would you need either of those? What do you think I’m going to do?”

“I don’t know.” I handed him the watch, and he sighed, reluctantly taking it back. “I don’t want your watch, Alex. Trust isn’t something you can buy.”

“I’m aware of that.” His jaw clenched with irritation. “But I’m at a loss here, and I don’t know how else to get you to listen to me.”