The Jake Helman Files Personal Demons by Gregory Lamberson

correct: Sara really was a crazy bitch, and Marc feared she would spend the rest of her life in an institution. He resented her hold on him, but what could he do? She had been his only friend.
    He had been unprepared for the effect her death had on him. His grief had been so overpowering he had been unable to function. Free at last to live his life as he saw fit, without the burden of responsibility for someone else, he suffered an emotional breakdown. The doctors at Stonehaven had treated him with the same disdain as they had their other patients, and he had been grateful for his transfer to the Payne Institute. There he met the Widow, who filled the void in his life and inspired him to rejoin the world.
    Enough
.
    Marc collapsed on the exercise mat, his chest heaving. Climbing to his feet, he staggered into the bathroom and stripped off his clothes. He showered, changed into his evening clothes, and cooked dinner: skinless chicken, asparagus, and salad without dressing. Setting his food on the coffee table, he sat facing the TV and turned on the news. Chewing on his lemon-soaked chicken, he felt giddy with anticipation. He relished hearing the local newscasters describe his exploits with melodramatic flair. On the screen, a female Asian reporter stood outside a familiar-looking apartment building, the wind wrapping her hair across her face.
    This is it
, he thought, raising the volume with the remote control. Setting down his fork, he leaned forward with the TV image reflected in his eyes. His pulse quickened when he saw that he had made the lead story. A photograph of Shannon Reynolds filled the screen, and Marc felt grim satisfaction. In his mind, he saw her standing at the bar, drawing his attention to her breasts. If only she’d known that it had been her crucifix that had attracted him to her. His blood turned cold as a drawing took over the screen: a black-and-white sketch of a white male with short hair. The food in his stomach churned as he stared at the police sketch of the Cipher.
    Marc rose to his feet and staggered around the coffee table. Unable to concentrate on the reporter’s words, he fell to his knees before the TV. With trembling fingers, he touched the screen, tracing his likeness.
    It’s me
, he thought, his lower lip quivering. His picture would soon be on display all over the city. He sank his teeth into the knuckles of his left fist. Choosing a soul from a crowded bar had been a careless mistake, he knew, but Shannon had been too tempting a target for him to resist.
    The Widow would be displeased.
    He needed to change his appearance immediately, destroy the persona of Byron, and do what he was best at: fade into the background like a chameleon, biding his time.
    I want my mother
, he thought.
I never should have killed her
.

9
    T he ringing shattered his dream like a softball hurtled through a window.
No! I don’t want to wake up! Not yet…
    His cell phone dragged Jake back to reality, away from Sheryl. He awakened in darkness, tears in his eyes, alone in a queen-sized bed. His head throbbed, his senses dulled.
    Where am I?
    It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered anymore. He covered his head with a pillow until the ringing stopped, then descended into a half sleep. Sheryl did not return to him, but faces did hover in his mind: Dread and Baldy. He shut them out. Then someone knocked on the door to his left.
    Who—
?
    Removing the pillow, he propped himself up on his elbows. Gray light outlined the blinds to his right, reflected in the bureau mirror across the room.
    Hotel
, he thought.
The Lexington
.
    The unseen door swung open, and a column of light sliced through the darkness. The door’s chain lock jerked it back and the light shrank to a narrow blade.
    “Sorry,” a woman with a heavy Hispanic accent said.
    The maid
. He must have forgotten to hang the DO NOT DISTURB sign outside the door. “Not today,” he called out, his voice hoarse. “Come back tomorrow.”
    “Ho-kay.”
The woman