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Jennifer’s party sucked, but I had a feeling that Mom had something up her sleeve. I was a month from graduation and wouldn’t be surprised if she had something special planned. Mom was always big on surprises.

    “Why do you think she sent you away?”
    “Mom and I were very similar. I was a younger clone of her; at least that’s what she and Dad always called me.”
    He cut off my next sentence. “Deanna, if you always considered yourself to be a clone of your mother, isn’t it possible that you are projecting this fantasy of violence onto yourself because you think that is what she was struggling with?”
    “Anything’s possible, but I don’t think that paranoia would manifest itself in urges like the ones that I have.” Derek doesn’t know that I have killed before. He doesn’t know that I have sunk a knife into someone’s stomach and watched them die. That I left that experience and wanted more. More bloodshed, more death. I don’t trust the bonds of patient-doctor confidentiality that much. I move on before he can latch on to this theory and analyze it to death. “Anyway, I don’t know that she planned what happened, but I think she might have known something was coming. Killing me would have been like killing herself.”
    “But she did kill herself.”
    I pause. “Yeah, but maybe that was unexpected. Maybe after she did what she did, she couldn’t live with herself anymore.”
    “Is that really what you believe?”
    I stiffen on the soft bed. “What do you mean?”
    “I mean, don’t spout off bullshit to make my questions go away.”
    “It’s not bullshit; it’s the truth. And if I wanted your questions to go away, I’d just hang up the phone.”
    “Maybe.”
    That does it. I hang up out of spite, and then, giving in to my sophomoric tendencies, I stick my tongue out at my cell.
    Derek doesn’t think that I am a killer. He says that my urges are strictly fantasies, that I don’t manifest other traits of a killer. He thinks I’m bipolar, that the dark side of me is just one facet of my personality, not the real me. He thinks we can compartmentalize it, kill it off altogether with “proper medication.”
    What he doesn’t realize is that just because I call it “an urge” or “the other side of me” doesn’t mean it is a separate personality of mine. I used to call it Demon, because it was a lot easier for me to refer to it by name than call it cruorimania. Plus, when I was pissed at it, it was a lot easier to trash talk it if it had a moniker. But Demon was just a name, not a separate entity. I am Demon. There’s never nice Deanna, then evil Demon. I’m always evil. Demon is Deanna. So I finally just dropped the nickname and accepted anthropophobia, cruorimania, psychosis…all of it is who I am.
    My many diagnoses would help in a murder trial. And technically, since I am a murderess, I should be in prison. But you have to realize that while prison would be a good thing for me, it’d be a very bad thing for my obsession. See, there are a lot of people in prison. And they wouldn’t be able to run far.

CHAPTER 13
JEREMY
    HIS BROWN UNIFORM pressed, his name tag straightened, Jeremy Bryant rides the old metal elevator up to the sixth floor. The delivery isn’t scheduled until tomorrow, but seeing the address, he added it to his truck for today, wanting the excuse to get on this damn elevator, ride up to the sixth floor, and go through the same routine he had for the last three years. Ring, wait, sign, and leave. Not exciting enough to waste fifteen minutes on a day already jam-packed with deliveries. Yet here he is.
    The package is a small manila envelope with “Jessica Reilly” written on the front. Most deliveries to this address are for Deanna Madden, but occasionally the names on the packages changed; Jessica Reilly being a frequent recipient. He’d originally assumed she had roommates, but after sharing an elevator with the apartment complex superintendent, he had