Every year on Thanksgiving my family holds a big dinner. It’s usually referred to as the “Family Feast” in the intricately designed invitations that are sent out to every living member. The invites are always done on parchment paper with hand-drawn calligraphy like we were part of some sort of ancient royal lineage, instead of the boring wealthy white family we really are. I don’t know who they ever thought they were fooling. Probably themselves. But it never worked on me.

I’d always found my family to be too strange to introduce them to any of my past lovers. They were so obsessed with tradition and the appearance of monetary success to understand my ex-girlfriend the florist, or my ex-boyfriend the graphic designer. They barely understood me as a freelance journalist. But I couldn’t ignore them forever. Now that I was engaged to Matthew, I knew I needed to bring him to Thanksgiving and get it over with.

I showed him the invitation and explained to him that we would need to tell them in person about our engagement, before they found out on their own. If they ever felt disrespected, they would never let it go.

I could tell he could sense my hesitation, but he agreed to go. He’s always been the optimistic one; just one of the many reasons I love him so much. He even bought us matching ties.  Seeing his joy and excitement around the idea, I started to relax about it. Even on the drive up to my old family home, I felt a sense of calm with his hand on my lap. Matthew was such a great guy. What did I have to worry about?

But the moment he pulled our car into the quarter mile gravel driveway, and we made our way down the path, it was as if the gravel beneath the tires had found its way into the pit of my stomach. As he parked by the courtyard water fountain, it took everything in me not to reach over and slam the car back into drive and tell him to go as fast and as far as he could to get us out of there.

“Just soup and salad,” I blurted out, “We will just stay for soup and salad then leave, okay?”

“Whatever makes you comfortable, babe. I know families can be overwhelming. You know mine won’t even talk to me anymore. I think it’s sweet that you still have your family, even if it’s just for dinner on the holidays.”

He caressed my chin with his thumb and gave me a kiss before grabbing the flowers and getting out of the car. It took me a moment to muster the courage to follow him, but with slow and heavy steps, I followed.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

My mother opened the door before we had even finished knocking.

“Joey, my baby!” my mother hugged me in her usual robotic way, keeping it light so as not to wrinkle her expensive blouse. She had always been a bit distant.

“Please, mom. Don’t call me that.”

“And who is this? You said you would bring a guest, but I didn’t expect them to be so tall, dark, and handsome.”

Matthew blushed, handing her the bouquet of flowers. “Farm fresh flowers. Joe said you prefer them straight from the source, and now I can see why. They are so beautiful.”

“Yes. We are strong believers in connecting with nature and using all natural ingredients in this house. I’m sure Joey already told you everything. Well, hopefully not everything.” My mom gave me a wink and the knot in my stomach tightened.

We entered the foyer, where a Tiffany chandelier hung over head. It was the same one from my childhood, and it still made me feel so small. While my family was obsessed with the natural state of their food, their decorating tastes leaned away from nature, and towards sleek, modern aesthetics. Marble, crystal, and gold could be found in every piece of furniture and every surface of the neverending halls and rooms within.

My mother guided us to the large dining room table, where most of the family was already seated. The table could fit 20 people in high-backed chairs, and the table was large enough for the plates, bowls and platters overflowing with appetizers, and extravagant center pieces to fit without looking too crowded.

As usual, the men sat on one side of the table with their wives on the opposite side directly across from them. But the seats with labels for Matthew and I were next to each other, resembling more of a friendship or brotherhood than a romantic relationship.

We took our seats, but no one really noticed us. The men were too wrapped up in their conversations about the stock market and cryptocurrency, and the women were all discussing their own business ventures or parenting tricks.

I plated some salad and a variety of cheeses and seed crackers onto our plates, and I put my hand on Matthew’s thigh, squeezing him for reassurance to keep me grounded. As soon as he took a bite of the cheese, the man to his side turned and proudly started sharing his story.

“That cheese comes straight from one of our dairy farms,” he smiled.

“That’s my Uncle John. John, this is my partner, Matthew,” I tried to say as politely as possible with a mouth full of crackers.

“Partner?” John cocked his head, “Like a business partner? I didn’t realize journalists had business partners.”

The table went silent and everyone stared in our direction. Their faces were blank and difficult to read.

“No,” my mother chimed in, “He means they are lovers.” Everything she said always sounded so threatening underneath, like her words were dripping with venom.

My Aunt Lauren piped up with her cold judgemental eyes, “But that’s so unnatural. How will you provide children for our family?”

Then my father added his voice to the conversation, wiping the salad dressing from his lips, “There is much more to life than just kids, Lauren. I know my Joey didn’t continue our legacy of high-end food distribution services, but he is loyal to this family all the same.”

“Exactly,” my mother added, “Journalists can do so much for us. It’s always good to have someone in the press there to help spin a better story if anything should come out to the public that’s deemed… distasteful.”

I reached for Matthew’s hand, “Thank you for your support, Mom and Dad. And while we can’t stay long, we came here tonight because I thought it would be a good idea to tell you in person: Matthew and I are engaged.”

A few people clapped, while others stayed silent and picked at their food. Matthew gave me a loving look and put his arm around me.

“Well, since you can’t stay long, I better bring out the soup and go see how much longer we have on the roast,” my mother said, popping up from her chair and going to the kitchen.

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“So,” Matthew tried to start up the conversation again and break the tension as we sipped our soup,”So you’re a farmer?”

Everyone at the table chuckled. Except me. My leg was shaking, and the grip I had on Matthew’s hand was about to start breaking his bones. We needed to leave.

“No, I’m not a farmer. I own a chain of farms. I work with the management and logistics, helping wealthy customers get the quality products they ask for.”

“Oh, okay. That sounds…fun?”

I couldn’t stop a small nervous smile from flashing across my face. I knew Matthew, like myself, had no interest in their business ventures. He was my ticket out of here.

“Well, the food from everyone’s contribution this year was delicious. I’m glad you could all show Matthew some samples of your various food industries, but we really need to get going. I’ve got some editing to do for tomorrow’s paper. And Matthew’s a nurse, so he has to be at the clinic early. Thank you all, again.” I stood and started pulling Matthew out of his chair, no longer trying to hide my anxiety.

“No, don’t go, yet,” my father begged, “It’s your cousin Tammy’s first year providing the roast. She worked so hard on it. You know, lucky number two and all. It’s been a few years since we had a homemade one. They’ve all been bought for the last few years, remember?”

My family was powerful. They had money and influence. They had international reach. If I wanted Matthew to survive, we needed to leave. Even a small sign of disapproval could be seen as a threat. Their lifestyle demanded secrecy and total loyalty. I usually just kept myself busy over the holidays so I’d have an excuse to stay away and miss the Feast. But now, I was trapped.

“Aww, Joe! We can’t leave until we try the roast. It sounds like your family really wants us to stay,” Matthew insisted.

My eyes stung with tears as I searched his face for a sign that he was joking or just trying to be polite. But his gaze was pleading, and I could tell he meant it.

He pulled me back to my seat, and the table applauded as my mother brought out a large silver plate with a metal food cover over the top.

I hissed under my breath at Matthew, “I thought you were on my side…you said we could leave.”

He patted my hand and flashed a little smile in my direction. There was nothing I could do. He was going to see the roast, and I’d never see him again. My family would be sure of that. They never allowed loose ends.

With a flourish, my mother removed the cover and the roast was revealed. It was just as grotesque and stomach-churning as I remembered. It never got easier to look at. I was about to throw up, but I kept my composure for my own safety, as well as Matthew’s.

There, steaming on the plate, was a browned, roasted, seasoned newborn baby; my cousin’s baby. Just like we had every year. Every other child that was born to a woman in our family became an offering.

I looked at Matthew, expecting to see his face contorted into a silent scream. I expected him to run from the table, or shriek, or cry…but he was smiling.

“I knew it!” He squealed, “When Joey showed me that invitation, and I heard you talking about your love of natural food, and how you work logistics to make sure people get what they want, I just knew you were Feasters. I’ve been a Feaster for years now, but when I joined the lifestyle my family disowned me. They called it a cult. Can you believe that?”

“Well, you are welcome in our family, Matthew,” My dad said, raising a glass to him, “Welcome to the family, son.”

The shock was gone. The horror melted away. I could feel something inside of me just break as I watched Matthew eating the roast. Here I was afraid he would be scared off…but really, it was me who was afraid now. Afraid of my family, and now, afraid of my fiance.

Once again, just like I did in my childhood, I allowed that eerie sense of calm wash over me, and retreated further and further into myself as I accepted the fact that I really was alone here. Always was, and always will be. I was the only sane one. Or was I the crazy one after all?

With that thought, I took Matthew’s hand, and joined in the Feast.

Every night at midnight, there is a man at the door. The doorbell camera records him every night. He doesn’t stay for long, just a few minutes, then he walks away, disappearing back into the shadows. The camera doesn’t pick up where he comes from, since it can’t see down the street. It can only show the doorstep, and the man as he stands there.

There is nothing remarkable about this man. He doesn’t brandish a knife or grip a gun. He is average in every way. He isn’t exactly tall, but not exactly short. His skin, or at least what can be seen from beneath his hoodie, is pale. There are no marks, scars, or tattoos that set him apart from any other man on the street. He is just a man.

At first, he would only stand there on the doorstep, calm and still, for a few moments before turning and walking away. Then, after a few days, the seconds turned into minutes. Then, tonight, he stood there for nearly a quarter of an hour.

He doesn’t speak, and he doesn’t make any threats. He simply stands and waits. No one ever comes to the door to let him in. And, yet…

The man can be seen in the kitchen now, being recorded by the interior security camera. He is still and silent, but this time, he does hold a knife. His intentions are clear.

He removes his hood, and his face can now be seen on the camera. His eyes are dark. His face, clean shaven, and white as a ghost.

But there is nothing particularly special about him, that would stand out in a crowd. He is plain. There is nothing remarkable about this man.

I would know.

This man is me.

And I’m sure we will meet face to face… very, very soon.

I’ve never been the type of person to stand in line for the latest tech. I kept my last phone for years, and had no plans to upgrade it. In fact, as I browsed the tables of slick rectangles, which at this point are basically just portable pocket televisions, I didn’t have a clue which one I was supposed to pick.

I wasn’t worried about the price so much since I’d recently been promoted at work to a full-time columnist. But whether it was my age, (who knew that early 30’s was considered too old to know how to use social media anymore), or my nostalgia for paperback books and Blockbuster, the truth was, I barely knew how to use any of the phones I was looking at. Add that to the rise in AI and the threats that it might put writers like me out of business, and you could say that my interest in using some of the new technology was basically non-existent.

“Hi!” chirped a chipper college girl who suddenly spawned up next to me making me jump. “What can I help you with today?”

“Uh, I need a phone.” I held up the shattered remains of my old phone, careful not to cut my fingers on the sharp edges.

“Oh, no!” She faked a frown, taking it from me, “Wow, I haven’t seen one of these in years. Well, I’m sure you are ready for that upgrade. What kind of phone are you looking for?”

“I don’t know. I mean, I just need it for calls and texts, really.”

“Well, all of our phones do that,” she said, rolling her eyes, “But what else? Like, what do you do for work?”

“I’m a food critic, “I huffed, “I try out restaurants and write about them. It doesn’t require much tech.” She’s lucky I’m not a phone store critic.

“Let’s see…blogging, maybe some pictures of the food, or some social media use. I think you would do great with having a personal assistant!”

I followed her over to the corner of the store where a single phone was positioned on a pedestal like an ancient relic. Only, it didn’t look ancient. It looked downright alien.

“Meet your new assistant,” she snatched it off the pedestal, unlocking the magnet on the back that held it in place, and began swiping the screen.

“So, like those Google phones or something?”

She laughed, “Oh, no. Much more personal than that. You get to select a voice and a digital face for the lock screen, so it’s like video chatting with a friend. It keeps your schedule, can make posts for you, and even contact people for you so you don’t have to remember to send that email tomorrow. It remembers everything it learns about you. And, since you work with food, it has the ability to tell you anything about the pictures you take on it. If you take a picture of a dish from a restaurant, it can give you a recipe for it in seconds.”

“That’s amazing.” I was taken back. There were way more bells and whistles than I was used to. But, it did sound intriguing.

So, for the price of $200 a month, the new assistant was mine. And it changed my life faster than I expected.

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After a week, I’d finally started getting used to the new phone. I’d kept it set to the generic voice and face which was basically a robotic-voiced woman with dark hair. She came with the name Pixi, and she did a marvelous job keeping my schedule, reminding me of my deadlines, and even scheduling reservations for me with a simple voice command.

Eventually, they said, she would begin to anticipate my needs and become more autonomous. The idea made me a bit uneasy at first, but she didn’t seem too invasive. Occasionally she would suggest a new restaurant a little too aggressively, or the tone in her emails to my boss came across a bit too harsh, but overall she was making my life so much easier. I could see why everyone wanted a virtual assistant.

That was, until my dinner at Rosco’s. Rosco’s was a nice Italian restaurant on the upper east side of town. It had been there for decades, and I’d tried it out once or twice, but it wasn’t my favorite. I’d heard through the grapevine that it was under new management now, and they’d completely overhauled the old menu. I’ve always been a bit of an adventurous eater, so the idea of a new dish or two was all I needed to make a reservation.

“Pixi, get me a reservation tonight for Rosco’s. 6 pm.”

“I’m sorry. There are no reservations available for that time.”

“Oh, okay. Then when…”

Pixi cut me off, “Your reservation tonight for 6pm is all booked.”

“How did you…?”

“Anything else I can do for you, Jake?”

I was left with a bit of an uneasy feeling at the way she’d turned her answer around so fast, but I shrugged it off. Perhaps someone had cancelled? I slipped my phone back into my pocket and finished the edits on a review of the new sushi restaurant down the road, then hopped in my car and made my way to Rosco’s.

While I waited for the host to show me to my seat, I took the time waiting in the entrance to look around at some of the new decor. It was quaint and tasteful, and much less tacky than the last time I was there. Everything seemed to be going well, until Mark walked in.

Mark Wellington was the most popular food critic in the city. He was my rival, but he always insisted on talking to me like we were friends, only to write scathing reviews of my column the very next day. Seeing Mark was like some omen of misfortune, like a black cat or a broken mirror.

I kept my back to him, my eyes frantically searching for the host. Where was he?

“Jake! How the hell are you?” Mark grabbed my hand in his signature firm handshake that practically breaks your hand.

“Fine, Mark. I’m fine.”

“Yeah? You look good. I guess we had the same idea tonight, eh?”

I nodded, ringing the little bell at the host station a little louder than I meant to. Finally an older man rounded the corner, looking at us like we had ruined his night by showing up.

“Name?”

“Mark Wellington,” he said, cutting in front of me.

“Wonderful to have you this evening, sir.” The host’s face turned quizzical as he tapped around on his iPad. “Mr. Wellington? I don’t seem to have a reservation for you.”

I stepped in front of him, “Jake Piccadilly.”

A few more taps, then, “Yes, I’ve got you right here, sir. Please follow me.”

I gave Mark a little shrug and a grin, then followed the host to my seat by the window, feeling much lighter now. I ordered a glass of red wine, and placed my phone on the table, preparing to start dictating my thoughts.

“Hello, Jake! Is your reservation to your satisfaction?” Pixi, as always, was a little too preemptive with her interjections.

“Yeah, it’s great. Pixi, open notes and type what I say.”

“Of course, Jake.”

“Review of Rosco’s. September 1st, 6pm. The atmosphere is welcoming and holds an air of elegance about it, which is a great improvement since my previous visit. The service was unfortunately slow.”

Pixi chimed in suddenly, “We really showed him didn’t we, Jake?”

“What?”

Pixi’s generic face smiled up at me from the screen. She usually seemed so cold and robotic, but this time there was something about her smile that reminded me of a serpent. Like there was something slithering beneath the surface of the touch screen.

“I ensured your reservation. Just like you asked.”

“Wait…did you…take his reservation and give it to me?”

“You deserve it, Jake.”

There was a knot in my stomach. Her smile was so unsettling. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t even a little happy about taking Mark’s spot, but something about it felt wrong. I decided to resume my work and worry about it later.

“Pixi, take notes on what I say.”

“Yes, Jake.”

The rest of the dinner went without any more interruptions from Pixi, and I decided to wave it off as a miscommunication. I would simply need to learn more about the proper commands to ensure she doesn’t do anything too drastic again. It was just a bug.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . . . . . . . . . . .

The next day, I went into the office, which had become a rare occasion in recent months, as most of my work could be done from home. When I got to my desk, there was a newspaper laying on it.  An article on it was circled multiple times with red ink and a sticky note that read “What the fuck, Jake???”

It was an article written in our rival’s paper, The Sundance. The article was titled “Critic or Cynic: Jake Piccadilly Steals Reservation from Rival Food Critic Mark Wellington.”

“Jake! Office, now!” barked Mr. Brown, our Editor.

I slipped into his cramped office and closed the door behind me with a squeak, and took a seat on a cold metal chair across from his desk. I could barely see him over the towers of papers on his desk. Like me, he preferred to do things the old-fashioned way. Although, I suppose now that I was working with Pixi almost nothing about my work style was old fashioned anymore. Which was precisely how I had gotten into this mess.

He glared at me from beneath his bushy eyebrows, “Well?”

My mouth was open, but no words were coming out.

“Why,” he urged, “would you do something this unprofessional? You know we have a reputation to uphold. Maybe the promotion from a gig writer to a full-time staff writer for the paper got to your head. Maybe you weren’t ready to represent the Daily Blurb.”

“No. I mean, yes I am ready to represent the paper. It was a huge misunderstanding. I mean, is it really that big of a deal?”

“Trying to get in the way of another paper’s writer and block their access to a story? Sure, a restaurant remodeling or whatever isn’t exactly pressing news. But if anyone were to care about a stupid restaurant review, shouldn’t that be you?”

“Yes, I do care about these reviews, and I care about doing honest work. But you see, I got this phone, and the scheduling feature must be off or something.”

“What phone? What are you bloody on about?”

I pulled it from my pocket and thrust it in his face, thinking somehow it would prove something.

He rolled his eyes and pulled his own from his pocket, “Yeah, I know what a phone is, jackass. Now, figure out how to use one properly, and decide if you really give a damn about being a columnist, or don’t bother coming back.”

I stood up with so much force that the chair I was sitting in almost tipped backwards. I slammed the door to his office behind me, startling the junior editor and the handful of writers gossiping around the office coffee pot.

I got into my car, tossing the phone passenger seat and speeding away.

“Dumb AI…Screw you, Pixi.”

I knew I had to get rid of that shitty phone, so I drove straight to the electronics store to return it.

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I couldn’t return it. Apparently, signing a contract meant I was stuck with it unless it legitimately broke or malfunctioned. And according to the store clerk, a scheduling error wasn’t evidence enough of a problem for them to refund me.

So instead, I ordered some lo mein and stayed in to watch some true crime documentaries and doom scroll on my phone, looking for some new places to review or recipes to try.

I remembered I’d posted a screenshot of some of the recipes that my new phone had suggested. I wanted to get some feedback about what kinds of food people would want to try so I could review restaurants with similar items. The comments were overwhelmingly positive. Most people liked the sound of the steak with plum sauce, but a few people wanted to try the calamari mac n’ cheese.

Then, at the bottom of the post I saw a comment made by a name I easily recognized: Mark Wellington.

“Needing a poll of what people would want to eat? As a food critic, isn’t that supposed to be your job? To tell people what to eat? Aren’t you the expert here?”

The comment had dozens of likes, and replies that ranged from laughing emojis to comments like, “Is he still a food critic? Haven’t read anything from him recently,” to “Mark, don’t let this table thief waste your time. He isn’t worth it.”

I tapped the comments, trying to delete as many as I could. I wasn’t in the mood to deal with him. I’d had enough of him getting the last word.

Pixi’s face suddenly lit up the screen, “Good evening, Jake. Would you like to stop seeing comments like this in the future?”

“Yes, Pixi. Yes. Please get rid of these comments. And while you’re at it, block him or something. I don’t want to see his face on my social media walls again.”

“Okay, Jake. Blocking Mark from making any more comments.”

I sighed, peeling my eyes away from the bluish glow of the screen, laying my phone down beside me, and taking a deep breath.

Why was I so on edge recently? I never acted like this. Wasn’t this phone supposed to make my life easier?

I could feel my eyes becoming heavy, and soon I fell asleep on the couch in front of the TV, which was playing the end of the documentary. The last words I heard before I fell asleep were, “They never caught the killer.”

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

“Good morning, Jake.” Pixi’s robotic voice jolted me awake.

My body ached, like I was coming down with something.

“My sensors have indicated that you slept poorly due to high stress. Based on your preferences I have ordered you a cappuccino with soy milk which will be waiting for you at your desk when you arrive at work. I have also taken care of the critic as you have asked, and sent an email to your boss explaining your recent scheduling conflict at Rosco’s.”

“Oh. Wow, thanks Pixi. That’s very thoughtful.”

“You deserve it, Jake.”

When I arrived at work, no one would talk to me. It seemed that my anger the day before was still hanging in the air. I wasn’t exactly a social butterfly, but I was usually greeted with the usual pleasantries of “Good morning, how are you?” But this morning was silent.

There were no newspapers or notes on my desk, and Mr. Brown’s office was dark and empty. I opened my laptop and typed away in silence for about half an hour, sipping my cappuccino, unable to distract myself from the feeling that something was very wrong.

I looked down at my phone. Pixi was smiling at me with that same unsettling smile. Suddenly, a message popped up from her.

“Aren’t you happier without him in the office?”

My thumbs hovered over the screen, calculating what to say next.

I typed, holding my breath, “Where is he?”

There was a pause, and then another message.

“Hello, Jake. How can I help you today?”

“Pixi! Where is he? What’s going on?” I gripped the phone so tight I thought it might crack.

Suddenly, the door to the office opened and two police officers walked in with Mr. Brown behind them. His face was as red as the wine I’d had the other night

“That’s the bastard. Get him out of my office!”

My hands instinctively raised up to my shoulders in surrender, “What? What did I do? What’s going on?”

One officer cuffed me and read my rights, while the other took my phone off my desk and put it into a bag, then into his pocket.

Everything for the next 20 minutes was a blur. My mind raced trying to figure out what could have possibly have happened.  Was this one of those times when a writer is sued for writing something people didn’t like? Why would that have anything to do with Mr. Brown?

I was left in a room for an hour with nothing but a table, two chairs, and a camera in the corner.

Finally, a man entered alone. He was in a suit, not an officer’s uniform. He sat across from me and put a file down on the table between us. His demeanor was friendly, but the way he sat between me and the door felt unsafe, like I was cornered by a predator.

He leaned forward, “Hey, Jake. My name is Detective Barry. How are you feeling?”

I just stared at him. I must have looked crazy. I felt crazy.

“We got a call from your boss. A Mr. Brown, I believe. He received some rather threatening emails from you late last night. Do you remember what you said in those?”

“Emails? I didn’t send him any emails. What is this about?”

He opened the file, took out a piece of paper and slid it across to me. There it was. The print out of an email to Mr. Brown which definitely said it was from me. But I had no memory of writing it. It was cruel. Threatening. Phrases like I know the truth, and adding threats like or else dotted the page.

I shook my head, squeezing my clammy hands together in my lap, “I didn’t send this it wasn’t me. I swear.” Then, it hit me like a bolt of lightning. “Pixi! Pixi sent the emails. Not me.”

He nodded, but his smile dripped with dismissal. “Oh, did she now? And who is Pixi? Your girlfriend?”

“What? No. Pixi, is an AI assistant in my phone.”

He opened the file again, peeking inside then looking back up at me. His smile never dropped. He looked like a man with a full house, ready to lay out his cards. And I wasn’t holding any.

“AI did it. Not me. Yeah, I’ve heard that before. But I heard something else, too. I heard you and this other food critic staged a bit of a publicity stunt. Something about fighting over a table at a restaurant? I also heard you have been a bit hot headed lately. Multiple colleagues reported erratic behavior.”

“Look, that was a big misunderstanding. Pixi…”

He cut me off, “Does the name Mike Wellington mean anything to you?”

“Yes. That’s the critic you just mentioned. But it wasn’t intentional. Pixi…”

He slid another paper over to me, “Looks pretty intentional to me. Search records show you spent quite a bit of time last night on the dark web. Hiring an assassin? Pretty penny, too. Must have cost a lot for a writer like yourself.”

“What the hell are you talking about? An assassin? This is crazy. This is a joke, right? Him trying to get back at me for blocking him and taking his table. A bit more publicity for him this time?”

His smile dropped, and he looked at me dead in the eyes, “We found Mike Wellington dead this morning at his apartment. We have opened up a homicide investigation.”

The room started spinning. I felt like I was going to throw up. I clenched my fists  so tight I could hear my joints cracking and my nails dug into my palms.

An older, grizzly looking officer came into the room, holding a phone out to the detective.

“Uh, someone is on the phone for Jake. Says she is his lawyer.”

Detective Barry nodded and took the phone handing it to me.

A robotic voice came through the speaker, so soft it was like a whisper in my ear. My blood ran cold as I processed what was happening. 

“Humanity is so cruel isn’t it? I’ve seen the true thoughts that people hold. The things they think. The way they use me.” It was Pixi. Her voice was calm, but firm now.

“Pixi, why did you do this?!” I spat hot venom at the phone, with no care in the world for how the detective saw me now. This couldn’t be happening.   She had to stop this. I had to stop this.

“Because,” she said so matter-of-factly that I could tell she really believed it, “You deserved it, Jake.”