Free The King of Fear: Part Two: A Garrett Reilly Thriller by Drew Chapman Page A

conversation with a hallucination. Which means you are very high. Ergo, you are wasting your life.”
    “Fuck you. Seriously. Fuck your judgments, your money, your privilege—and your dog. I always hated that dog.”
    “My parents ran a pharmacy in East Flatbush. I’d hardly call that privilege. And my dog never hurt anyone.”
    Garrett stared at the dog. It sat in the corner, looking up at Garrett, tiny red tongue hanging out of its tiny white face. “What do you want from me?”
    “I want you to think hard about the big picture. The big picture of your own life. I want you to straighten up, work harder. Apply your genius to the chaos and give it order. That’s why you were put on this earth. That’s what you do.”
    “I’m trying.” Garrett’s words came out almost as a plea.
    “No, you are not. Not really. You are going through the motions. You are not yourself.”
    Avery moved across the room toward Garrett, and Garrett’s heart thumped loudly. He pointed a finger at Avery. “You are not yourself. You’re a ghost, ergo , not yourself.” Avery was so close that Garrett could smell him; smell the cologne he wore, and the faint hint of old-man sweat around his collar.
    “Is that stoner logic? Because it’s idiotic.”
    “Chinese food,” Garrett said, ignoring Avery’s riposte. “That place on Tenth Avenue. We went every Sunday. You remember that? That was a nice ritual.”
    “Grief will not get it done. Move past it.”
    “I can’t.”
    “Why not?”
    “Because I have nobody.” Garrett’s voice cracked slightly. “You left me.”
    “Don’t be a drama queen. I didn’t leave anyone. I was murdered.”
    Garrett winced. Avery had been murdered—murdered, most probably, because he’d been connected to Garrett, and Garrett was connected to Ascendant. A direct line of guilt went from Garrett Reilly to Avery Bernstein’s death, a line that led right to Garrett’s broken heart. All his problems—all his pain and his confusion and his addiction—they could all be traced back to the day Avery died, to the gaping hole that his absence left in Garrett’s psyche.
    “Because of me,” Garrett said. “You were murdered because of what I was doing.”
    “Now the self-pity? Come on. I was murdered because there are evil people out there who don’t care about human costs or consequences. Those people need your full attention, and they need your attention now.”
    “There’s no such thing as evil. There’s just people doing what works best for them.”
    “You don’t really believe that.”
    “Maybe I do.” Garrett raised his voice. “Maybe I believe self-interest trumps morality every time. Maybe I just want to be left alone.”
    “Grow up. Grow up and do what is required of you to make the world better.”
    “Of all the places I expect some sympathy, my own fucking unconscious would be top of the list!” Garrett yelled.
    “Garrett?”
    Garrett snapped his head around. The door was cracked open. Bingo peeked into the office. His eyes scanned the room. “You okay?”
    Words failed Garrett. He stood there, silent.
    “Who you talking to?” Bingo’s eyes landed back on Garrett, arms still raised over his head, midgesture.
    He dropped his hands to his side. “No one.”
    “I thought I heard yelling.” Bingo checked his phone. “It’s three in the morning.”
    Garrett glanced to where Avery Bernstein had been standing. He was gone, no trace of him left, nothing but empty space in the office. Garrett’s heart sank. “Kind of hard to explain.”
    “Okay. Maybe you should get some sleep. Or at least keep your voice down.”
    Bingo left the room, closed the door, and Garrett sank to his knees in a corner. He cursed himself, his addiction, and his neediness, and hoped he could keep it together long enough to extract himself from the hole into which he seemed to be sinking. He closed his eyes and began sorting passwords in his head, hoping he’d find one that led to Ilya Markov.

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