Born, Madly_Darkly, Madly Duet [Book Two]

by Trisha Wolfe

  But that only buys time. It’s hardly a healthy treatment plan.

  I’m only escaping from one form of prison to the next. Over and over. Until the second hand stops ticking for good.

  I bury my hands in my pockets, touch the switchblade. Comfort. Then I turn into the alley. I walk the long stretch with a single thought beating against my skull. I could’ve killed Detective Foster and Agent Nelson. It would’ve been the simplest solution.

  Once I knew undoubtedly that the copycat killer was one or the other, once I had them both in my city, I could’ve easily offed Foster before he tracked me to London’s office. And Nelson? London could’ve effortlessly led him to a private location where we both could’ve taken our time and enjoyed the kill.

  But like a puzzle demands to be completed, a game has to be played to the end.

  London may choose to believe that I took the game too far, my disorder ruling over intelligence, the compulsion to create an elaborate disaster and witness the turmoil, to snuff out the chaos, too great to overcome. That I jeopardized us both.

  There is that…to some extent. It’s why I’ve been caught before. The more elaborate the trap, the greater the risk.

  And then there’s the issue of my pride. The Y chromosome dictating my actions, the thought of the world believing the copycat murders were done at my hand—destroying my work, a mockery.

  I really do loathe the bastard for that.

  But in the end, it was none of these things. She’s always been my goal, my purpose—even before I fully realized it for myself.

  London was my epiphany.

  It’s such a beautiful word. Epiphany. Just the sound of it, the taste of the syllables curling over your tongue, the puff of air across your lips. The moment the word is uttered, it’s like a striking realization descends, as if some powerful force beams sheer enlightenment into your head. And for a single moment, everything is clear.

  Perfect and pristine.

  Every single misstep and tangled web woven was for her.

  So she could follow the clues, piece together the puzzle.

  She’s my key.

  There’s a pattern to life, and my pattern was designed the moment my mother spit me from her rotten womb. A bond steeped in madness—a prison I can’t escape.

  I see the small river of blood first. Flowing through the rainwater over the asphalt like filmy motor oil. Then the estranged high-heel discarded in the middle of the alley. My own blood stirs. My pulse picks up speed. The thick scent of death chokes the air.

  I step through the blood without thought, as if lured to the body by a magnetic force.

  She’s propped up against the brick building, her skirt ruched up, her shirt torn, hair a tangled mess covering her face. Distinct bruises wrap her neck. She’s beautiful, a gift. I know she belongs to me by the word scrawled across her chest in blood.

  Whore.

  Even when you know what’s coming next, it’s nearly impossible to break your pattern. I kneel before the woman, entranced, and reach toward her neck to check for a pulse. Adrenaline slides through my veins like melted wax, thickening my blood, my heart pumping too hard, too fast, drowning out the sounds in the alley.

  I almost miss the click of the gun’s safety.

  Atoms freeze. The world halts. The distant sound of cars driving past the alley seems to fade away, leaving only two heartbeats fighting to dominate the void. I begin to pull my hand back from her neck.

  “Don’t move.”

  I stop, my hand held aloft mid-action. “Your handiwork, Agent Nelson? The contusions around the neck, right above the laceration—” I chance a look at him—“the signature is a dead giveaway. Pardon the pun.”

  He levels the gun with my gaze. “Not mine. Yours. Your new MO. The proof that you’re devolving. Stand up.”

  I rise to my feet. “Of course. How else would you have caught me if I weren’t coming undone? That makes it more believable.”

  “My ninety-seven percent capture rate makes it fucking believable. I want the weapon in your pocket. Remove it…slowly.”

  I keep one hand in the air and reach the other into my pocket. I bring out the switchblade.

  “Toss it on the ground,” he says.

  I sling it in his direction. The blade hits the gravel and clatters at his feet. “What now?”

  “Now—” he scoops the knife off the asphalt “—you give me the rest of your weapons, and we end this like dignified men.”

  I do so, laying the smaller knife, wire, and tape on the ground.

  Nelson kicks them toward the dead woman. Then he flicks the switchblade open and intentionally slashes his arm. “Let’s see how this went down. First, I followed a lead to a Rockland bar. A patron recognized your description. Not having enough resources…” He grunts as he cuts another slash across his chest. “Instead of burdening the team with yet another false lead, I set out to investigate on my own.” He drops the bloodied knife to the ground. “A fortuitous chance encounter. Catching the criminal himself in the act. You attacked me, and I defended myself. One direct bullet to the head.”

  I hold his gaze for a moment, then glance at the victim. I recognize her now. Charity. The prostitute. Poor Charity. Maybe I overindulged, too enthusiastic in my endeavors to trigger Nelson’s compulsion to kill. He couldn’t even wait a full day before he murdered the first person he came across.

  Sloppy.

  “And also lucky for you,” I say, “your lead can’t be questioned to corroborate the story.”

  He smiles. “I don’t like loose ends.”

  “Neither do I. But then you know that, seeing as you studied me, mimicked me.”

  “You can’t really get inside the mind of a killer unless you adapt—try on his skin for a while.”

  “And how does my skin feel?”

  He lifts his chin. “I have to admit, I like it. I’ll like it even more when I’m sliding into London’s skin.”

  My hands curl into fists.

  He notices my reaction and his smile stretches. “I didn’t get the obsession. Not at first. But I knew she was vital in getting to you.” He steps closer. “If not for the doctor, you could’ve fled the country. Hell, we wouldn’t be standing here, right now, your demise a trigger-pull away, if you’d just left. What is it about London that you couldn’t let go?”

  Jaw set, I breathe out the steely tension from my chest. “If you have to ask…”

  Nelson may’ve said his piece flippantly, but the burning desire to unravel my draw to London flares in his wild eyes.

  “You can’t copy everything,” I say. “London likes her villains authentic.”

  He raises the gun. “She tastes like lilacs. Did you know that?” he taunts. “I’m rock-hard in anticipation to show her how real I can be—”

  The animal in me lunges. A primal roar of possession released into the night. It’s not part of the design—but I’m human, imperfect. Carnal and feral, and bloodthirsty.

  Nelson is primed for the attack. It’s possible this is a part of his design, making the struggle between us all the more believable. I get in a solid punch to his jaw. Satisfaction at hearing the sickening crunch fires through me, blistering my veins, seeking more carnage.

  The pistol whips the side of my head, blacking my vision and bringing me to my knees. I feel the cold press of steel to my forehead.

  Breathing labored, Nelson says, “Making you disappear would be poetic justice, but I just can’t forfeit the capture.”

  “It’s in your blood now,” I say, gaze cast up at him. “The lust for the kill.”

  His finger moves to the trigger, and I close my eyes. London’s face appears and, even though this isn’t how it’s supposed to end between us, I’m comforted by the finality of it. For however brief, she was my salvation.

  An eternity passes as I wait for the bang.

  A siren whoop bounces around the alley. Flashing lights assault my eyelids. When I open my eyes, it’s the fear I see in Nelson’s face that heigh
tens my senses and feeds my awareness, bringing me back from the depths.

  I’m alert, aware of the footfalls echoing off the pavement. Voices shout to “lower your weapon.”

  Teeth clenched, Nelson pulls the barrel away from my head and sets his gun on the ground. “I’m FBI,” he announces.

  Two uniforms round us, taking Nelson into custody and searching him, the other wrenching my hands behind my back. “Stand up,” he orders. Then a string of profanity fills the air as he notices the dead woman. “We got a vic!” he shouts.

  Nelson directs a scathing look my way as the officer removes his badge from the inseam of his suit. His eyes say what he’s not able to, expressing the morbid loss of his hard-earned kill.

  “Glad we were able to locate you in time.” It’s Foster’s voice that cuts through the chaos. The detective walks right up to Nelson. “For your sake, agent. Can’t be too careful where this bastard is concerned.” He glares at me.

  I’m searched and then cuffed, lowered to the ground forcefully, the gravel digging into my knees. For the second time, Detective Foster has surprised me.

  Nelson receives his badge and weapon back, and as he’s straightening his suit, he says to Foster, “Just how did you wind up here?”

  “What? No thank you?” Foster asks, his voice laced with smugness. A cast wraps his arm, a sling draped over his shoulder. He’s still bruised and weathered, but his pride sloughs off about ten years. He beams with satisfaction. “Don’t worry, Agent Nelson. I’ll be sure to declare this was a team effort.” At Nelson’s incensed expression, Foster says, “A crime-scene tech led the taskforce to the Refuge. Said he spotted Sullivan hanging around here. It didn’t take long to pick up your scent on the same lead. You’re about as stealthy as a bull in a china shop. Luckily for us all, we got here soon after you.”

  When Foster’s gaze lands on the victim, his proud features purse into a saddened scowl. “Not soon enough.” Then to me, he says, “But it’s the very last fucking time for you, Sullivan. I can’t wait to watch you die.”

  I smile conspiratorially at Foster, and he backs up a step. I sense the disturbed mood rioting through him. He’s bumbled his way to this point, a tagalong, not even sure how he got here.

  Lawson. If I hadn’t left him alive, he would’ve never had time to think about our moment together to make the connection to me. Ironic. By sparing his life, he in turned saved mine.

  Before I’m led away by the officer, I glance at Nelson. “Every hunter has his whale,” I say, smiling. Foster has been one step behind Nelson for weeks, tracking the copycat killer just as Nelson has been tracking me. The detective has his Moby-Dick—he just doesn’t realize it yet. “Getting caught is an inevitability.”

  Agent Nelson moves in close. “A lot can happen between holding and prison.”

  Thrill of the challenge spikes my blood. “Are you worried what I might say?”

  His features harden. “Only if you’re worried about your doctor. She’s been pretty vulnerable lately.”

  A red haze covers my vision.

  The act of murder is intimate in its own right. In the final moments before a person’s death, you’re given a candid view into them. Open and bare, a secret life revealed. I’ve never before desired to kill for personal agenda. As close as I become to my victims, I’m still an abstract demon to them—a reflection of their sins.

  Revenge. Greed. Even love. All intimate motives to commit murder, and I’ve felt none of them.

  Until now.

  As I’m hauled into a squad car, a new awareness settles over me. I’ve suffered my pattern since the day I entered that dark underground room, and never once did I fear it would touch another life. For the first time in my solo existence, I can feel the shift. The design has changed.

  I’m going to enjoy killing Agent Nelson in the most personal and painful way.

  20

  Folie à Deux

  London

  By the time my plane is on its descent toward Bangor, exhaustion claims every muscle in my body. A quick layover in DC allowed Sadie and I to make the exchange of documents. She returned my phone with a hesitant scowl, claiming the multitude of notifications forced her to shut it down, worried “this Special Agent Nelson character” would track me down only to find her. Sadie isn’t fond of the FBI, to say the least.

  Once I was seated on the plane, I turned my cell on, then thought of switching it right back off when the flood of messages and voicemails arrived. Instead, I put it on mute and settled in for the flight home.

  My phone vibrates in my pocket. I sigh out a breath, deciding I won’t start returning calls until I land. When a notification buzzes my phone immediately afterward, resistance becomes pointless. I ignore the “no cellphone” sign above and swipe open my text messages.

  The air leaves the cabin.

  My heart stops.

  No.

  Grayson has been apprehended.

  I drag in a breath, forcing my lungs to expand past the constriction as I read the text from Allen Young again, trying to discern a different meaning. My hands shake as I type a message to him, then I stop.

  I open my browser and search Grayson’s name, my head aching from the pressure. I tap open the first article, and the world tilts.

  The Angel of Maine Caught.

  The wheels touch down, and the motion rocks through me with a jolting sickness. I only have hours before he’s transported to Cotsworth Correctional Facility.

  * * *

  I ignore the calls and messages from Agent Nelson on my way to my apartment, where I hurriedly shower and change into clothes more becoming of Dr. Noble. Sliding into the suit is like sliding back into my own skin, comforting.

  A brief thought of Lydia flutters up—what my other, better half would do in this circumstance—but I’m too far beyond her now to feed that insecurity. I tamp it down as easily as I call for a cab, decision made.

  I can’t flounder one step.

  As the taxi coasts toward my building, I pocket my phone with a curse. I’ve covered every news station report and article, looking for something, anything to contradict Grayson’s arrest, and it’s not until the cab pulls to a stop that reality fully sinks in.

  The car is swarmed as a flood of reporters rush the vehicle.

  “Pull around to the back,” I instruct the driver. “You can wait for me there.”

  He blares the horn, forcing camera crews and bystanders to move. “You sure you want to get out here?” he asks as he stops near the back entrance. “I’m not sure I can wait here…”

  There’s a number of people here, too, but it’s not as thronged. “You can wait.” I leave my purse in the backseat to keep the taxi waiting, then I jet out of the car toward the door, trying to shroud my face. Cameras flash, and a recorder is thrust in my face.

  “Dr. Noble, how do you feel about the arrest of Grayson Sullivan?”

  “Do you fear he’ll escape again?”

  “Are you scared he’ll come after you?”

  Christ. I wave off the questions and make it into the building, pulling the door closed behind me. Crime-scene tape is layered over the elevator. Irate, I tear it away from the panel. In my mad dash to get here, I hadn’t bothered to check if the building had been reopened.

  Now that Grayson is caught…

  I shut my eyes. Center myself. Then, with renewed purpose, I hit the elevator button.

  Grayson has been incarcerated. This is a fact. For officials, whatever investigation my practice or I were under is probably of no more concern. At least for now.

  My floor is uncannily quiet when I step out. I curse when I find my office door already unlocked. “They could’ve at least locked back up.”

  I push the door open. What’s left of my patience ignites a very small fuse.

  Agent Nelson is seated at my desk, flipping through my planner. He doesn’t look up, just continues to intrude on my privacy. “I thought you might go to him first.” He pencils something into my planner. �
�But then I figured this is your haven. Where you keep your secrets.”

  Against my will, my gaze slides to the filing cabinet.

  “You would want to check on the status of your office first,” he continues, and looks up. “Make sure nothing is out of place.”

  I smooth the lines of my face, clearing my features of all emotion. It’s difficult to maintain an unaffected countenance when I glimpse the wall behind Nelson—my research on Grayson exposed. The Dali discarded to the floor.

  “I do plan to see Grayson,” I say, moving into my office. “For an interview. Unlike some professionals, I can set my personal feelings aside in order to do my job. His state of mind right now could give us insight—”

  Nelson stands abruptly. “You can stop lying to me now.”

  I square my shoulders. “I don’t owe you anything. No explanations. And I’m quite certain that the search warrant is now expired, so I’m politely asking you to leave my office, agent.”

  He pushes my chair back and turns toward the wall, trails a finger over the pages on the corkboard. “I feel like a fool. Here I was, vehemently declaring your innocence to my superiors, and it wasn’t Sullivan who had the obsession—it was you. Fixated on your own patient.” He looks at me then. “Are you in love with him?”

  This isn’t the probing question of a curious FBI agent. Nelson is dropping the guise. His tone seethes with offense. His suit is wrinkled, as if he hasn’t slept in days. He’s endured some kind of setback during Grayson’s arrest.

  “Frankly,” I say, “that’s none of your business. How I conduct my sessions and therapeutic techniques with my patients is none of the FBI’s concern.”

  He moves around the desk, coming toward me. “I should’ve put it together with the inconclusive rape exam. What is it about the bad boy that turns smart women into whores?”

  I inch toward the door. “You need to leave. Now. You need sleep, agent.”

  He scrubs a hand down his face. “No. I don’t think that’s what I need. I need what you gave Grayson. You’re his muse. His creative genius is influenced by you.”