by Cole McCade
Yet the entire time, whether it had been an hour or a year, he could not stop circling on that thought.
Not just one.
It was the rabbit mask. Even if the suspect had coordinated in advance with other inmates to plan the details of their escape and obfuscation, it was the rabbit mask that stood out. There would be no reason for the prison to conveniently possess a rabbit mask that matched the style and color of the mask the suspect had worn during the single taped recording of a previous kill.
Not unless he had been wearing it when he was arrested for the transgressions that led to his incarceration, and had retrieved it from the storage lockers used to retain prisoners’ possessions until the day of their release.
No.
Seong-Jae felt an outside hand at work here.
Someone had introduced the rabbit mask into the equation.
Someone who knew the suspect’s patterns, and knew…
That mask would be his trigger point.
That, Seong-Jae thought, was what had set him off.
Almost as if the identity of the Golden Ratio Killer had remained dormant, forgotten. Perhaps without a trigger, an impetus, a stressor, the suspect would have simply served out his prison sentence in silence and peace, then been released into the world to live out the rest of his days without resuming his spree killings.
But that mask.
That mask would have, Seong-Jae thought, awakened the monster sleeping inside the suspect.
And whomever had given him access to it had known that.
Why?
Why would anyone want to trigger and reactivate someone capable of such gruesome atrocities?
And what was their connection, that they knew so well and so easily what could bring the Golden Ratio Killer back to life?
He felt stiff as a wooden doll, as Malcolm nudged him gently to open the door and get out. He climbed out into the brisk twilight air, briefly breathing in nothing but the scents of exhaust and concrete and human life, food cooking in a restaurant nearby and someone’s spilled gasoline and everything but the scent of blood he could not seem to chase from his nostrils.
It was Malcolm who guided him inside; Seong-Jae let him, only breaking from his silence to briefly check in at the front desk, show his ID, retrieve his room keycard. It should probably tell him something, he thought numbly, that Malcolm guided him not to the stairs, but to the elevator with a warm, strong hand against the small of his back, ignoring Aanga, leaving him behind in the lobby.
And it was Malcolm who gently took the keycard from Seong-Jae’s lax fingers, swiped them into the room, tugged Seong-Jae into a dim-lit space tastefully appointed in minimalist dark wood tones, black, white.
Malcolm dropped his carry-on on the desk just inside the door, set the keycard down next to it, then peeled the handle of Seong-Jae’s rolling suitcase from his tight-clenched palm and set it aside. Seong-Jae felt like a broken machine—just all stiff joints and rusty hinges, everything inside him blank, it did not matter if he moved on his own or was moved by someone else.
Until Malcolm tugged on him, watching him with those slate blue eyes that seemed graven with all the weight of the world, capable of holding and carrying everyone’s sorrows.
“Come here,” Malcolm said, catching Seong-Jae around his shoulders. “Come here.”
Ah—no, there it was. Now that they were alone, the feeling swelling up inside, too large for him, threatening to crack the clouded glass walls around him and bring everything into sharp focus once more. He did not want it. He did not want it, did not want the stabbing intensity of it, the hideousness, the hateful raw reality of it.
But he could not fight it.
And “Malcolm…” he choked out, as he went into his old wolf’s arms, clutched his fingers into the front of his suit coat, dug in hard and fast and needy. So fucking needy, when he was cracking, shattering, the glass was not just a wall when the glass was him, and he was falling apart.
He had never wanted to come back to this life.
And he thought he might just hate Aanga Joshi for bringing him into it again.
Even more…
He hated whomever had decided to play this dark and terrible game, and unleash one of the worst monsters Seong-Jae had ever seen onto the world once more.
“Shh,” Malcolm soothed, as those arms that were the strength of mountains and the solidity of every faith wrapped around Seong-Jae—and yet Seong-Jae could feel how Malcolm trembled, too. How deeply this must cut him, and he knew…
They would not survive this without each other.
He could not have done this alone, with only Aanga to turn to on those hard nights, during those moments of pain and loss and grief and sickness.
He would only endure this with Malcolm.
But he had to hold himself fast, keep himself together…
Because he did not think Malcolm could endure this without him, either.
“I am sorry,” he gasped out, burying his face against Malcolm’s shoulder, his chest so tight it must burst soon, so soon, he could not endure anymore and yet his throat was closing, locking everything inside when he only wanted to let it out in a scream. “Fuck…please, just…hold me. Please. That is all I need.”
Malcolm let out a rumbling chuckle—weary, humorless, and yet there was a warmth to it that vibrated so quietly, so calmingly through Seong-Jae, soaking down to his bones.
“Ah, omr-an,” Malcolm sighed, and drew him toward the bed. “Funny how…that’s all I ever need, too.”
[7: WHY THE HELL CAN’T I]
ANJULIE IDLY WONDERED IF SHE was about to get fired.
She also idly wondered if she could bring herself to care.
She stood outside the Suntrust Building, with its outdated square concrete columns and glass fronting; the District Attorney’s office was inside, and the only good thing waiting for her there was a momentary glimpse of her best friend and the only comfort she had, these days, other than an annoying little yappy Pomeranian who only loved her because she fed him and put up with the fact that he made her sneeze and made her eyes itch.
What would she do, if Matheson fired her?
The immediate answer was go back into law, possibly as a public defender. But the idea had no bite to it; as much as she swore the stress and politics of this job would kill her, at least it gave her something to sink her teeth into. She didn’t want easy. She didn’t like easy, even if sometimes she was tempted to just…take her savings and fuck off to the tropics somewhere to get island-brown and island-drunk for a year or three. Maybe crash with family in Cuba for a while.
Island-brown and island-drunk wouldn’t land her the job of Police Commissioner.
She had a long way to go for that.
So if Matheson fired her…
She hoped that pendejo was ready to fucking fight.
She straightened the collar of her suit and the blouse underneath, smoothed the narrow tie she knew damned well Gabrielle liked to use as a leash, and strode inside the building with her chin held high.
The elevator spilled her off just outside the glass-walled lobby of the D.A.’s office—where she knew, even before she walked in, that Gabi had been conscripted into fucking secretary duty again. It was hard to miss that cloud of gorgeous coppery hair behind the computer screen, spraying out in ringlets everywhere, or the lustrous shine of brown skin as Gabi typed.
Anji might almost let herself get wrapped up in admiring her.
If she didn’t want to wring Matheson’s neck.
Three fucking advanced degrees, and he treated Gabi like the fucking coffee girl; she wasn’t—
Down.
Breathe.
You really want to lose your job, walk in there ready to murder him over your girl.
But Gabi wasn’t really “her” girl, was she?
Because that was a complication Anjulie wasn’t ready to talk out just yet.
Everything held in a fragile balance, for now, as long as they didn’t say the things
that would make it so very clear they could never work when they needed such different things, loved—and didn’t love—in such different ways.
That was enough of a sobering thought, at least, to make her take a deep breath and plaster on her most neutral calm as she pushed the glass door open and stepped inside.
Gabi glanced up, and for just a moment her eyes sparked so bright, her lips spreading into the sweetest smile—and she actually blushed. She blushed, warm soft glow under copper skin, brown eyes flicking over Anjulie from head to toe and lingering on the line of her tall, square-heeled boots, before Gabi cleared her throat and schooled herself into a more professional, polite expression.
“Captain Zarate. Are you here for your three PM?”
“I am. Sorry if I’m a little early, Ms. Leon. I can wait if he’s busy.”
Anjulie wasn’t sure when she’d stopped using Leon-Khalaji, even if it technically hadn’t legally changed.
Then again…she wasn’t sure when Gabi had stopped using Leon-Khalaji, either, even if Anjulie had been glad for it.
Gabi tilted her head, then leaned in, dropping her voice with a glance toward Matheson’s door, laughter edging every word. “He’s been playing Untitled Goose Game since this morning and telling me to hold his calls.”
“You shouldn’t be taking his calls in the first place. That’s not your job.”
Anjulie folded her arms on the reception desk, leaning in, letting her gaze dip over Gabi for a moment. She’d watched her get dressed this morning, but that didn’t mean she still couldn’t appreciate just how nice her sleek black three-quarter-sleeve sheath dress looked on her, hugging her body and accented with a thick black PVC belt snug enough against her high waist to accentuate the plumpness of her belly, the plunging V neck and the open polo-style collar probably a little much for work but very much just right to keep Anjulie focused on anything other than Matheson.
That didn’t mean she wouldn’t still wring his neck.
“Are you really working on filing?” she hissed, eyeing the stack of folders at Gabi’s elbow.
Gabi winced with a sheepish half-smile. “I was looking for something, and everything’s a mess, so while I was here—”
“Gabi.” Anjulie sighed. “You don’t have to do things just because they’re there to be done. You’re worth more than this.” She gently flicked her fingertip against the center of Gabi’s forehead, making her cross her eyes rather adorably, head rocking back a bit. “Make him hire a new receptionist. He’s not paying you to do two jobs, and you could wipe your ass with a secretary’s pay grade here.”
“I know.” Sagging, Gabi uncrossed her eyes. “I know. I just…”
She gestured helplessly, and Anjulie half-smiled. “Yeah. I know. You save your teeth for the courtroom.” She let her hand drop to tap her fingertip to Gabi’s lips, instead. “But you’re not defending cases right now. So use your teeth to impose a little order here, and make Matheson remember your bite.”
Gabi opened her mouth—but the creak of hinges warned them both, and Anjulie pulled back quickly, straightening and blanking her expression.
District Attorney John Matheson leaned out from his office, watching her with hawklike, dark eyes set in his narrow, serious face. He had an intensity about him despite being a trim, lean man, always in precisely tailored suits, always high-energy and yet compactly contained, until even in his stillness he vibrated like a bomb ready to go off. It tended to intimidate most people, when he always seemed quietly, calmly capable of anything, a force to be reckoned with.
To Anjulie, he just made her think of Roscoe without his anxiety meds.
Tiny and growling, teeth sharp enough, but in the end just a twitching bundle of energy.
Matheson offered her a cool smile, purely perfunctory. “Captain Zarate.”
“Matheson,” she answered with an acknowledging nod.
He beckoned her with two brisk fingers, and every muscle in her neck clenched, but she bit back the names on the tip of her tongue.
“Let’s finish this quickly,” he said. “I have another meeting shortly.”
She pushed away from the reception desk, arching both brows. “Interviewing a new receptionist?” she asked mildly.
“Pardon?” His brows knit together, and he gave her an odd look, before ducking back into his office. “Inside, please,” drifted back.
Anjulie met Gabrielle’s gaze, and they both rolled their eyes before Gabi stole a surreptitious glance over her shoulder, then blew Anjulie a quick kiss with a purse of her lips.
With a grin, Anjulie mouthed See you tonight, then winked and strode in to face down the devil.
By the time she stepped into the oak-paneled office, Matheson had already seated himself behind his broad desk. The difference between his office and hers always struck her so starkly; her glass-fronted cubicle on the homicide floor was for utility, and she just stacked new file cabinets in wherever she could fit them, barely leaving enough room for herself, her computer, and whomever she needed to drag up in front of her desk today. She spent more time there than she really liked, but still it was less focused on comfort and presentation than it was on simply getting things done.
Matheson’s office, however?
Was a statement piece.
The bookshelves built into the walls were thick, finely crafted wood, ornate and glossy, lined side to side with legal texts with their gold-embossed binding and precise letters. Rather than just a desk and a few extra chairs, the room was furnished with small seating arrangements with lush upholstery in deep green, accented by green shaded lamps and tastefully arranged potted plants with glossy, thick leaves.
A long runner trailed the length of the room like a royal carpet, drawing the eye intentionally to the throne of his heavy desk, a precisely chosen slab that had been carved from a single piece of wood from one massive tree. The entire desk probably cost more than a year’s rent on her townhouse, and had probably come out of the city budget. The desk contained only one closed book, a lamp, and an iPad on a stand; not even a notepad or blotter or messy coffee cup full of pens. Any file cabinets were tastefully hidden in the walls, or perhaps the desk; nowhere in sight. No work in progress scattered everywhere.
She’d almost think Matheson really didn’t do anything while he was in here.
But she couldn’t help remember something her Tia had said once, though.
Rich people and poor people both gotta clean, Anji. Difference is who leaves their soap out on the kitchen sink.
Difference is what feels like a home, too.
Ain’t never been nowhere that feels like a home where you can’t find a single goddamn bottle of Pledge left on the stair rail.
She kept her grim smile to herself and stepped forward to sink into one of the deep bucket seats on the opposite side of Matheson’s desk. She didn’t even bother with her coat; she didn’t think she’d be staying long, and once this mess was over she had things to do.
“So?” she said, rather than waiting for him to make an opening statement and put her on the spot. “Going to clue me in on what you need?”
He smiled that same cool smile, but there was something knowing in it.
Rather than answer, he unfolded his hands from his desk and turned the iPad to face her, then tapped the little arrow on the paused YouTube video and let it play.
She already knew what she would hear before the image on the screen even registered.
She knew.
Because it was her.
Standing on the roof of someone’s SUV, beneath a crackling storm-filled sky while the city burned and people rioted around her, shouting into a megaphone with her voice cracking in ways she couldn’t stand to hear, because it reminded her how close she was to the end of her rope every damned day.
While people looked up at her, filming her on their cellphones as she shouted, “Haven’t you had enough? I know you don’t want this. I know you don’t! People frightened. People hurt. You’re taking your anger out on the
wrong people because you feel powerless against the ones you really hate. And I get it. I do.”
Anjulie closed her eyes, her chest clutching.
Fuck, that night.
New Year’s Eve.
Baltimore nearly setting itself on fire.
And Anjulie burning herself to nothing, trying to calm that fire, only for Gabrielle to find her and hold her and set her alight with a new kind of flame all over again.
Everything and nothing had changed since that night.
Because one speech didn’t change that Baltimore was a mess.
And the BPD was eating itself alive, the snake that devoured its own tail, too caught up in its own politics and corruption to give half a fuck for the people it was hurting.
She took a deep breath, opening her eyes, fixing on Matheson. “It took you two months to call me in here over a video?”
“I did have other commitments.” He tapped the volume on the video—leaving it playing, but quieter, as if the sight of her own starkly lined, desperate face was an accusation. He folded his hands once more, watching her unblinkingly. “It’s a bit of a PR mess, don’t you think? Considering you’re an official representative of the BPD.”
She worked her jaw. “I’m not ashamed of what I did there, if that’s what you’re waiting for.”
“No. I’m not waiting for shame.” He arched a starkly angled, very pointed brow. “I just want to know where you and I stand, Zarate.”
“The same place we’ve always stood.”
She stared back at him unflinchingly. She would not let him goad her—but she would not let him hold her accountable, either. She’d been afraid he would see this as a power play. A challenge to his authority. A break from the line they all had to toe.
What did it say about Baltimore law enforcement, that calming a riot was seen as treason against the status quo?
Was she a heretic, now, for trying to give people hope instead of beating them back into line?
