Born, Madly_Darkly, Madly Duet [Book Two]

by Trisha Wolfe

  There was only a psychologist and an ex-detective to account for the remains—what was left. A sludge of mutilation.

  After twelve hours of questioning, I was released and, bags and office already packed, left immediately to escape the infatuated press. I heard there’s already a book in the works, and possibly a movie script.

  The world is enthralled with what is impossible to comprehend.

  A special agent with the FBI goes off kilter and resorts to killing criminals to better understand the killers he hunts. A convicted serial killer who murdered the deviant and sadistic, who in turn defeats the disturbed agent by taking both their lives. One obsessed detective who arrived in the nick of time to help save the psychologist that both deranged men were transfixed by.

  Sounds like a ridiculous work of fiction.

  Only I lived it—and now my name is synonymous with the Angel of Maine.

  We’re a duet. Forever linked.

  I breathe in a deep inhalation, filling my lungs with the dry, warm air of San Francisco. We’re experiencing an Indian summer, and the weather is temperate and the air clean. Denoting a new beginning.

  I make sure I walk the same path every day. Developing a pattern. I take the same route to the coffee shop, and then the park, and then back to my three-story townhouse. It’s seated on a corner, not far from the bustle of the financial district. I live in the top apartment. My new practice is on the bottom level, after I converted the garage into an office and therapy room.

  It’s easy to get lost in this city.

  I turn the corner and head into the park. Coffee in hand, I make my way to the bench under a large oak that I’ve claimed for the past six weeks. I watch mothers stroll their babies along the paths. Dogs race the grassy hill as their owners toss toys to be fetched.

  I’m nearly done with my coffee and turn to toss the cup in the bin when a rare breeze floats over the park. A chiming pricks my ears. I freeze, waiting to hear the clanging notes again.

  They sound, and I look up into the branches of the tree.

  Two silver keys twinkle above.

  My heart lurches.

  I stand on the bench and reach high overhead. I clutch the keys, snapping them free from the branch. The small objects feel heavy in my palm, the cold metal quickly matching my heated skin as my heart knocks painfully against my breastbone.

  So as not to deviate from my pattern, I slip the keys into my jacket pocket and walk the familiar route to my townhouse. My fingers touch the keys along the way, tracing the grooves, the imprint of letters and numbers.

  Once inside my office, I lower the blinds and dim the lights. Then I place the keys side-by-side on my desk, and study the numbers. “A storage unit,” I say aloud.

  It was my choice to select the puzzle locks. And once that idea took route, it only made sense to complete the trap design with a magical element that paid homage to one of the greatest escape artists.

  A combination of Houdini and Shakespeare. I’ve always harbored a flare for the dramatic.

  Juliette planned to fake her death—but she didn’t put in enough planning beforehand. Had she had a little more patience, she and her Romeo would’ve ridden off into the sunset together.

  I open my laptop and connect to the secure connection. The one Grayson developed and left for me on a USB drive that I discovered taped next to my key in the filing cabinet. I search the numbers on the keys, locating which storage facility they belong to.

  When I questioned Nelson about how he discovered the Blue Clover, he said I told him. This is true. I led him there with the notes I kept behind my Dali. I planted the clue in the one place I knew he’d find, and that he’d keep hidden from the FBI. I even left Nelson the design for the trap itself. A basic contraption I designed myself using all the elements of Grayson and myself combined. A trap so perfectly enveloping our team dynamic, that Nelson wouldn’t be able to resist the compulsion to make it his own. To steal it. To use it against us.

  It was a huge risk.

  I wasn’t sure Nelson would take the bait. He was devolving faster by that point, and by the time he sent for me, requesting my appearance at the Blue Clover, I knew any number of things could go wrong.

  Not all the details were worked out the night Grayson and I made love in the abandoned garage. Only one finite aspect needed to be secured in order for the rest of the pieces to align—for the dominos to topple accordingly.

  I gather my purse and stuff the keys inside, then lock up my townhome. This time, I make sure to use a route I’ve never taken before. I catch a trolley to the other side of town. I stop into a coffee house, noting every person who enters after me. When I leave, no one follows.

  I contain my smile. I’m not clear yet.

  By the time I enter the storage yard, sweat trickles down my back. I pull off my suit jacket and drape it over my arm, making my way cautiously toward the guardhouse.

  “Excuse me,” I say, gaining the guard’s attention. The man is relaxed in the booth, his feet kicked up as he plays with his phone.

  After a few seconds, he says, “Just go on in.”

  I do smile now. “Thank you.”

  I walk around the gate that the guard couldn’t be bothered to raise, and locate the unit that corresponds to the keys. With a determined breath to steel myself, I push one of the keys into the lock.

  I lift the roll door.

  It rolls back with a deafening clatter that jars my nerves.

  The unit is empty. All except a snow globe in the corner.

  Glancing over my shoulder once, I note that I’m still alone, then enter the unit. I pick up the globe and laugh.

  “Of fucking course.”

  * * *

  The ferry ride to Alcatraz Island is a short fifteen minutes. I clutch the railing, my nerves a tangle of excitement and fear.

  I left my cellphone behind at my townhouse. The only way for anyone to know of my location is if they’ve been following me. I’ve learned how to sense this; strengthening those dormant hunter skills that lay buried in us all.

  No one is concerned about Dr. London Noble anymore. My part is too boring, too cliché, to be of interest. The story is far more exciting if I’m just the victim, giving the stage to the main players—the villains and heroes.

  I coordinated an elaborate scheme, but I believe the most impressive bit of magic I performed was in becoming invisible.

  I step off the ferry and am guided to the tour hosts, where they section off tourists to visit the different parts of the island.

  I select the prison.

  A giant red sign reads: Tour Starts Here

  And that’s where I start. The tour guide leads us through corridors, pointing out the many cells. A familiar pang of nostalgia grips me, acute in its haunting clutch. I’ve lived within a cell my whole life. In one way or another.

  He couldn’t have picked a more perfect location.

  By the time the tour is coming to an end, I’m worried I missed the mark by a day, or even hours. No. I didn’t stray from my pattern.

  Trepidation slithers around my bones, slowing my steps. I didn’t share every aspect of the trap with Grayson while I was designing it. Some elements—like the aconite—was decided later. We never got the chance to prepare beforehand.

  Then a terrible thought: He might not be coming to me, but for me.

  A hand slides into mine.

  I stop walking. I’m held back from the rest of the tour group as they progress ahead.

  For a few beats, I let the coarseness of his palm speed my heart. Adrenaline pours into my veins and skitters along my skin. Then I turn to face Grayson.

  26

  The End

  Grayson

  What beats a perfect death?

  Faking a perfect death.

  It’s not an easy feat. It takes time. Preparation. Skills. And an accomplice who is apprised in manipulation tactics that rival the most intelligent law officials.

  I pull London inside one of the cells. />
  “We might get trapped in here,” she says. But her eyes are wide in excitement. Those golden flecks sparkling.

  “I could do time with you.” I wrap her in an embrace, bringing her close, and try to conceal the pain touching her causes me.

  She’s never fooled. She immediately rolls my sleeves back to inspect.

  The scars on my arms are covered in new red and silvery slashes. The razor cuts are still sensitive, the poison leaving behind a permanent imprint on my nerve endings.

  “The pain will subside with time,” London says, tentatively touching the wounds. She looks up. “Any lingering side effects? Dizziness, paralysis?”

  A grin curves my mouth. “Always the good doctor.”

  She goes to say something more, and I cover her mouth with mine. Stealing her breath and inhaling her deeply.

  It’s ironic that, what got me tried and found guilty, would also set me free. Corpus delicti. Body of the crime. It’s difficult to prove a death occurred without a body—but not impossible. Substantial circumstantial evidence is needed, and a witness.

  A witness to observe the death is always helpful.

  The psychotic FBI agent, obsessed with his capture rate, designed a death trap in the copycat manner to end my life, and he did. Grayson Peirce Sullivan is no more.

  I now go by Cain Owen Hensley. That’s what it states on my fashioned ID.

  I thought it was fitting, seeing as Cain killed Abel and then was doomed to wander the world aimlessly. Except I’m not aimless in my wandering. Not anymore.

  I have a very specific destination.

  “I can’t believe you chose Alcatraz,” London says as we board the ferry back to the mainland. “You’re disturbed.”

  I smile. “I was always curious if I could escape it.”

  As we watch the island get smaller in the distance, London turns to me. “Well, lucky for us, you’ll never have to find out.”

  I place a lingering kiss to her forehead. “I’ll try to stay out of prison.”

  “Oh, I know you will, Cain. Because I’m setting the ground rules now.”

  My smile widens. “Yes, doctor.”

  I have no choice but to trust her on that. She’s the one who designed my death, after all. I owe every bit of my freedom to her.

  While London was crafting the trap, I rigged the container unit with an inner-glass chamber that not only provided a stabilized environment for the concentrated acid concoction, but also housed a separate compartment, obscured from view. Once the lift arms lowered beyond a certain level, it pulled a cord that dragged the container lid farther back, exposing the compartment. Which to anyone else, simply looked like part of the contraption.

  But it was my safety net for the fall.

  Being off by even an inch could’ve killed or exposed me. I had to be angled precisely, so that Nelson tumbled to the acid, and I could use his dead weight to propel myself away and land in the compartment.

  I then had ten minutes to make it to a storage unit in London’s name and administer the antidote she concocted. Seems she had a scientist friend in the forensics’ department who enjoyed a challenge. And who enjoyed money even more.

  The key to the antidote is under the container.

  Her whispered words to me right before she pressed the knife to my neck.

  Then she sank the blade into Nelson and pushed us to our deaths.

  Perfectly planned and executed.

  Yet, it was more than a gamble. Anything could’ve gone wrong. Foster may have not arrived in time, responding to London’s urgent text too late. He could’ve brought police with him, giving us too many witnesses to construct our narrative.

  Foster’s broken arm might not have delayed his climb to the top of the container, giving us less time to eliminate Nelson, or for me to make my escape.

  I’m still uneasy about the way it went down; trusting too much to chance. But change and acceptance are a part of becoming a couple. A duo. A team.

  And that’s all there is. Fin.

  Endings suck. Why shouldn’t they? We’re sad when life ends. We’re disappointed when something good comes to an end. No one wants an ending; we’re designed to want to last forever. So very difficult to bring an end to something brilliant that’s taken a lifetime to build.

  For London and I, it should’ve been tragic.

  All epic love stories have a tragic ending. The classic failure of two great souls is what makes their brief union passionate. Intense. Epic. And everyone enjoys a good love story. Give them what they want, so the story can end without dispute. A finality with a standing ovation.

  I study London’s profile as she stares across the bay. She is stunning, beautiful. My dark goddess. My angel and savior.

  There is one loose end…but I’ve decided not to pull that thread. London was the architect, and she waited until we were in the moment before she revealed the poison aspect of the trap.

  I smile to myself. Maybe she thought I’d enjoy the surprise. Maybe it was a late addition to the trap. Or maybe she was waiting until the big reveal of my life before she made her final choice.

  She won’t talk about it. And I won’t pull that thread. But I believe she went to Ireland to find that answer. She knew there might be a chance she’d have to sever our relationship.

  I take her hand in mine and lace our fingers. Locked together.

  The madness is held back for now. The fear that my genes will ravish my mind one day is never too far from my thoughts. Even so, London’s presence helps hold the compulsive thoughts at bay.

  Because I know, if that day ever comes, London won’t fail me. She’ll give us the tragic ending we truly deserve.

  Epilogue

  London

  Hawthorne Cemetery sits on a pocket of rolling hills in my family’s hometown. Fall leaves, fading from lively green to hues of red and orange, dust the corner of the graveyard, covering mounds of dry grass.

  I’ve now visited twice. Once to see where my parents lay in rest, and today to see my sister, Mia, in her final resting place next to them.

  Jacqueline and Phillip Prescott—my biological parents—share one large alabaster headstone, so I had Mia’s designed in the same marble finish, and purchased the plot next to theirs.

  I walk toward the headstones with my wool coat pulled closed, my dark hair whipping my cheeks in the unforgiving Cincinnati wind. I stop at the foot of their graves.

  The branches rustle in the breeze above, stirring the only sound in the otherwise silent cemetery. I’m alone, and I realize with a startling truth that, when my time comes, there will be no place for me.

  Just as well. I don’t really belong here, with them, after all.

  My life awaits me back in San Francisco, where Grayson is pursuing our newest patient, getting to know our soon-to-be victim. David Lyman has a preference for young girls. He sought out my services because his daughter is about to turn thirteen. He didn’t admit as much to me during our introductory session, but Grayson knows where to look to uncover the truth.

  I plan to exercise David’s demons, making sure that he ends his life before he has the chance to get at his daughter.

  Then, Grayson and I will move to another country for a time. Our plan is to keep relocating. Leaving behind no more than one victim in each place.

  My death… Well, hopefully that’s further off.

  I walk toward the middle of the plots and place a single sprig of lilac on my mother’s grave, then white roses on my father’s and Mia’s. I learned that my mother loved lilacs; it was her favorite flower. My first home—the one I can’t recall—still has lilacs planted below the windows.

  Some things are inherent in us. Some memories buried so deep, our subconscious mind clinging to them, even when tragedy tries to strip us of our identities a trace remains.

  I’m making peace with Lydia.

  A noise to my left—the snap of a twig.

  I whirl around to locate the sound and spot a squirrel. My held breath releases
in a whoosh, fogging the air. I turn to leave, and something catches my notice between the trees. A hulking figure…

  I look again, but other than the squirrel, there’s nothing there. Just the shadow of a pine cast over the graves.

  It’s not the first time I’ve thought I’ve seen Foster nearby. Every once in a while my paranoia creeps up, usually when it’s too quiet, too still. Like now. I brush the eerie sensation off and start toward the pebbled pathway.

  I met with Foster right before I moved away from Maine. He checks in on me every now and again, just to make sure I’m all right, as we still remain friends in a sense.

  He asked me about the knife.

  Although he corroborated my account in the garage, he wasn’t—technically—present during the final act. For that one minute while he struggled to climb the shipping container, when Grayson and Nelson went over the edge, Foster didn’t have sight of us.

  During our conversation, I played confused, but I knew what he wanted to know: How did Grayson’s switchblade end up at the bottom of the container of acid? It was gnarled by the time forensics pulled if free, but it could still be identified. Unlike flesh and bone, steel is rather resistant to sulfuric acid.

  I told Foster that it’s possible Grayson stabbed Nelson before they went over. Everything happened so quickly…

  He accepted my answer with a nod. But I could still see a trace of doubt in his eyes; that lingering need he has as a lifelong detective to close out every angle of the case.

  Should Foster prove to be a problem, we’ll manage him. Maybe Foster even realizes the danger in this…or maybe it’s nothing at all. My mind playing tricks on me.

  Pebbles crunch beneath my heels as I progress along the path, and then I feel it—his eyes on me. His presence near.

  An arm wraps around my waist, drawing me to him.

  “You have got to stop that,” I say to Grayson as I sink against his chest.

  “You have got to be more aware of your surroundings,” he retorts. Then his lips find my neck, chasing away the chill and sending a shiver over my skin at the same time.