Born, Darkly: Darkly, Madly Duet: Book One

by Trisha Wolfe

  I smirk. “That’s not a very good argument, detective.”

  His brow furrows as he realizes my point. “But you don’t really want to hurt your doctor, do you? She’s been the only one in your corner.”

  I gain another two steps toward the elevator. “Again, not a good counter strike. She fed me to the wolves. Or did you miss her fascinating testimony?”

  “Sullivan, don’t—don’t take another step…,” he warns.

  I hear the elevated pitch in his voice; he knows he’s lost this round. I tug London toward the wall, using it to shield our right so I can focus on the officers to our left in the adjacent hallway as we ease toward the elevator threshold.

  “Push the button,” I tell her. She does, and when the doors slide open, I jerk her inside. “See you at the bottom,” I say to Foster before the doors close.

  I hit the Lobby button, then count down the seconds. At ten, I push in the Stop button. The car jerks to a halt.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Trust me,” I say, and oh, the beautiful look of pure hatred on London’s face heats my blood. She’s breathtaking when she’s livid.

  “We’re not a team,” she grates. “I diagnosed you as delusional in open court. God, I was right.”

  “I know. It was brilliant, by the way.” I stuff the gun behind my back and lift a section of the car ceiling, sliding it back. “You should feel proud of that—the way you callously led the jury to kill without remorse. They have you to thank for not losing any sleep over it. Took less than two hours to convict me.”

  I step onto the bar and hoist myself through the ceiling.

  “I did not—”

  “You did. You can stop lying.” I look down at her. “Give me your string.” I extend my hand. Her eyebrows push together in confusion. “Now, London. Give me the damn string in your pocket.”

  She curses and digs out the black thread.

  “All of it,” I demand. “I know you keep more.”

  She hands up the roll of string. I unravel it and hand her one end. “Tie this around the red button.”

  She does. “You said you don’t want to harm me. Are you letting me go?”

  I show her the gun. “Don’t lose that sharp brain of yours just yet. Give me your hand.”

  I pull her onto the top of the elevator, and we’re seconds from finding out if this plan will work. I guide her toward the ladder on the side of the shaft and then seal myself around her.

  I pull the thread.

  The elevator jolts and propels downward, continuing it’s journey to the lobby. “Climb,” I order.

  We reach the roof of the hospital. Once I have London out of the shaft, I dispose of the gun. She anxiously stares at where I hid the weapon behind a skylight.

  “I never liked them,” I say. “No art in shooting someone.”

  Her feet move backward. “I’m leaving now, Grayson.”

  I look up into the darkening sky. “What time is it?” When she doesn’t respond, I grab her arm and wrench off the thousand dollar watch she wears. I flip on the radio, gauging how close the search is to us. “You have less than one minute to make your choice,” I tell her. “In ten minutes, they’ll have downtown secured and blocked off. Then we have twenty minutes to make it out of the state. So you get one of those minutes. Decide.”

  She pushes her hands through her hair. “You’re giving me a choice?”

  “I give everyone a choice. You’ve been making choices since the first day we met.” I offer her my hand. “You can go back, try to insert yourself back into your life of lies, or you can come with me and find out how far the rabbit hole goes to get your answers.”

  She shakes her head. “I can’t.”

  I breathe hard. “You can. You can do anything you want, and I promise, I will let you go.”

  She releases a manic laugh. “This is fucking crazy. You’re crazy!”

  “Is that your professional opinion, doctor?”

  Stare cast over the horizon, she shakes her head. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

  “Even if it means discovering the truth?” I say, and her gaze nails me. “The absolute certainty of uncovering everything your father kept from you?”

  It’s there in her pensive eyes, the longing, the desire to unmask that which terrifies her. Curiosity alone isn’t enough—to a narcissist like London, this is the promise of her story. Her. her. her. It feeds her vanity.

  She secures her bag over her neck. “They’re going to put you to death. And I swear to God, Grayson…I will be there to watch.”

  She takes my hand.

  I close my fingers around her palm, feeling the beveled scar. “I hope you will be.”

  But not before we end this.

  I pull her behind me as I take off toward the edge of the building. Her pain will slow us down. I’ve thought about that, though, how to get us out of downtown the fastest, with the least amount of effort.

  The sounds of helicopter blades chopping the air hovers near.

  I let her go down the fire exit first. “Don’t look at the ground,” I instruct. She curses the whole way down the side of the building, but she makes it.

  Police sirens bounce against the cement and brick, the hospital nearly barricaded. I grab her arm and lead her to the thick brush of trees and bushes where we halt before the freeway.

  “We have a minute to make it to the bridge before the dogs pick up our trail.” I look down both lanes, gauging traffic. The darkness will give us some cover, but not for long.

  “Why are you doing this…?” she asks aloud, but it’s not intentionally directed at me.

  I palm her face. “You know why—you know why you’re here. To demand the answers he kept from you.”

  A tear slips free, and she blinks away the wetness. She’s not crying; her adrenaline is running high. Good. It will help cancel out her pain.

  “We’re leaving, London. Now.”

  The race to the bridge is our biggest challenge. We leave the sounds of the search behind as we cross the highway. Cars stop in the middle of the street, horns blare. Thirty seconds to go.

  I pick up the pace once we’re on the median. Her gasps of pain sting my ears. I feel her pain for her, and I would take it if I could. The destination is in sight. Another five seconds and we’re here. “Stop.”

  She doubles over to catch her breath. “We’re in the wide open!”

  I look over the side of the bridge. “We’re going down.”

  Her eyes widen, and she shakes her head. “No. I’m not dying for you—”

  I grab her around the waist and pull her back against me. She kicks and fights as I ease up against the cement railing. “You already made your choice.”

  I take her with me over the edge.

  The creek water hits us with an icy fist. A rock tears into my shoulder. I aimed for the deepest part of the Brandywine, but it’s still a shallow pool.

  “Oh, my god!” She sputters and wipes at her face. “I hate you.”

  I circle my arms around her and haul her close. “You act as if you’ve never swam in a creek, country girl.”

  Her fists beat at my arms, splashing water. “This is madness—”

  I turn her toward me, taking her face into my hands so I can stare into her brown eyes. “This is so much more than madness. This is what obsession does to a person.” I swallow hard. “Believe me, I have tried every way to get you out of my system, out of my head… I can’t. I’m only trying to make sense of the nonsense. We’re connected, and we belong together. I’m already a dead man. So if I die in pursuit to obtain the unattainable…then that’s a death I can honor.”

  She blinks through the droplets of water, her gaze flicking over my features. “You’re doing this because you believe you can what…? Feel love?” She shakes her head against my grasp. “Jesus, Grayson. That’s insane. And impossible. You’re confused and sick.”

  “Then we’ll be sick together.”

  I push off the floor of th
e creek to stand, bringing London with me. “Stay on the bank. Track through the water. Dogs can’t scent us in the water.”

  She’s managing, but I can sense her lethargy. She’s fading fast. As soon as her adrenaline wears off, she’ll be in too much agony to continue. I just have to get us outside of downtown. Then I can take over for her.

  I smile to myself. Nurture is a strange thing.

  My objective over the past year hasn’t always been clear. The more I researched and learned about London, the more my goal has changed. But there has been one remainder that has consistently stayed the same.

  Her.

  She’s the answer to my purpose.

  With death row as my only certainty for the future, a short life sentence of penance isn’t an option any longer. I’ve paid my dues to this world, a world that robbed me early on, that fashioned me into a killer and now wants to punish me for it. I owe it nothing.

  But for her…I can be more. I can be whole. The completeness that we mean together is a satisfaction to the compulsions that has consumed me for months. Demanding to be obtained.

  She is my salvation. And I am her long-awaited consequence.

  20

  Chemistry

  London

  Trekking through a muddy creek with a convicted killer on the run is not how I imagined my life would end. And it will end. Badly. There’s no other logical outcome to this insanity. Detective Foster already has me pinned as Grayson’s accomplice, and when he locates the gun that Grayson discarded, he’ll deduce I helped him escape willingly.

  I’ll be prosecuted as aiding and abetting, if I don’t end up dead.

  I’m still trying to process what exactly snapped inside me the moment I put my hand in his.

  I know he’s a killer. I know he’s a psychopath. I know that when his delusion is proven wrong, he’ll become even more unhinged, and I’ll most likely become his next victim.

  And yet for one solitary moment, all warnings swept aside, and I wanted the clarity he’s mastered. The power to be free without shame. In retrospect, that clarity is a probable detachment side effect of his inability to process emotions…and he no longer has anything to hold him back.

  And I’m going to hell for envying him.

  It’s not out of a sworn doctor’s oath that I’m here with my patient; I’m not here to save him. I didn’t completely fabricate the truth on the witness stand when I condemned any likelihood that he could be rehabilitated. He’s dysfunctional on the most dangerous level.

  I’m here for one simple reason: me. I’m selfish.

  The draw I felt to Grayson during our first session has coaxed every choice I’ve made since. He’s not wrong about that. I’m tethered so tightly to him, I can feel him in my veins. He’s poison in my blood. I’m drunk on him.

  I’m trapped within my own illusion of believing that I can resurrect my past and find some answer to free me of my father’s legacy…and I’ve officially lost my mind.

  “I can’t do this,” I say, my feet dragging. My heels long gone. “I can’t keep going.”

  I’m not sure if I’m talking about my emotional state or the fiery hell of pain consuming my body. Both hold equal weight at the moment, and I drop to my knees.

  Grayson kneels beside me and pulls my shoulder bag over my head. “You have meds in here?”

  I nod. “But they won’t help. I’m too far gone.” The only thing to help the pain at this point would be to knock me unconscious. It would be a nice detachment from this reality, too.

  I notice the blood staining his soaked shirt as he rummages through my purse until he finds painkillers. He thumbs out two and feeds them to me, forcing my mouth open. “Chew them,” he orders.

  I’m not cognizant enough to argue. I break each pill in half with my teeth and swallow the bitter chunks until the pills are dissolved. “You’re hurt.”

  He doesn’t acknowledge the wound on his shoulder. Instead, Grayson scoops me into his arms, carrying me against his chest like some hero.

  A mock laugh tumbles out. “Most women end up with men like their fathers. I used to judge them pretty harshly. I guess I’m no different.”

  He doesn’t remark as he wades through the shallow stream.

  “Do you have any idea where you’re going?” I demand.

  “Yes,” he finally says. “There.”

  I angle my neck to see a shopping complex abutting the creek. The shops are remodeled, multicolored townhomes. “I don’t think we’ll get the best customer service. I’m sure our faces are plastered all over the news by now.”

  “We’re not shopping.” He treads up the bank and sets me down. “Stay here.”

  As if I have a choice. Liquid fire threads every muscle. Nausea setting in.

  Run. The thought assaults my head, and I’m seconds away from talking myself into it when I hear a car engine turn over. He’s stealing a car. Of course he is. It’s the only way we’re getting out of the state in his estimated timeframe.

  I close my eyes and count to ten.

  I block out the pain and my desire for Grayson, and try only to think of the aftermath. When we’re no longer running, what then? If I can’t walk away from him on a rooftop with the world poised to destroy us, how will I be strong enough to deny him…anything?

  In every dysfunctional relationship, there is typically one codependent partner. I have to decide right now who is in control: me or him.

  “Let’s go.”

  Grayson’s strong arms surround me, then I’m again swept up and carried in a direction only he knows. The car door of an outdated Ford Taurus is ajar, the engine running. He places me in the passenger-seat and buckles me in.

  The chilly night air blankets us in enough darkness to shroud our getaway, and I give in to the sparse comfort of it. We’re alone. I’m tired of fighting the inevitable.

  I close my eyes.

  An intense spike of pain rouses me awake.

  I try to reach for my back, but my arm won’t move. Tingles bite into my hand and I groan. I peel my eyes open to see my wrists cuffed to the door handle. Panic splinters my head as I yank at the restraint.

  I fear we’ve been caught, until I realize Grayson is driving. As the grogginess wears off, I take stock of my surroundings. It’s night. Headlights illuminate the dirty windshield.

  “Why am I handcuffed? Where did you get them?”

  He keeps his gaze ahead. “We’re almost there. And the cuffs came with my new ensemble.” He’s still dressed in the cop uniform.

  I twist in the seat to face him. “That’s not what I asked. Why am I restrained, and where is there?”

  He reaches between the console and grabs a bottled water. “Drink this.”

  With a frustrated sigh, I jerk at the cuffs until my wrist bleeds.

  “Finished?” he asks.

  “Fuck you!” But suddenly thirst grips my throat. I tip the bottle with my mouth and guzzle. When I pull away, he sets the water in the cup holder. “You said you’d release me at any point.”

  “I never said that.” He glances over. “I said I would release you. And I will. But we have a long way to go first.”

  “I’m not a hostage, Grayson.”

  “No, you’re not a hostage. You’re a hostile victim of your own prison. Once you’re free of that, you can go. But not before you pass the test.”

  The way he says test ices my blood. “I won’t run. I made a choice to be here.”

  “You will try to run, regardless of your choice. Everyone runs from their truth. I can’t let that happen.”

  I settle back in the seat. I evaluate my state and situation. My skin is tacky and itchy with dried sweat. I’m barefoot, my legs and feet covered in dusty mud. My pain is present, but not overbearing. We’re in a stolen car.

  For all intents and purposes, I look and am behaving like a captive.

  I’m a psychologist who needs to act like one and reason with her patient.

  “How did you get the car?” I ask.

&
nbsp; “Right place, right time,” he says evasively. At my impatient glare, he continues. “Newer models are designed to prevent theft. Just needed to find the right model to hotwire.”

  For all I’ve learned of his psyche, I realize I know nothing of the man. “Is that a trade you picked up from your childhood? Your stepfather?”

  He smiles. “Not every confined space belongs to you, London. You can stop trying to shrink me. You were never the one in control.”

  Heat rises to my face. Acute anger that he may be right singes my nerves. “How long have you been plotting this?”

  He grips the wheel with both hands. “At first, I accepted my time. I think you refer to it as the cool down period. But then you requested an interview.”

  “So it’s my fault why we’re here?”

  “No,” he says, his voice low and measured. “There’s no fault. That’s like trying to blame the sky for being blue. The color doesn’t exist; it’s a phenomena made up of layers of ozone and oxygen.

  “We’re just layers of molecules, our brains hardwired to make up our personalities, our identity. It’s predestined. No amount of nurture or abuse could change either one of us.”

  “That’s not fact, Grayson. That’s a longwinded debate that’s been argued for decades. That’s your opinion.”

  “Is it?” He looks at me. “How many years and with how many subjects have you tried to rehabilitate?”

  I hold his gaze, unable to answer.

  “You chose me that day in the waiting room not because you believed that maybe, just maybe, I was the answer to your question of whether it was possible. You chose me because I was your proof that it’s not.”

  I shake my head. “No.”

  “Yes, London. I couldn’t have planned every detail of this without your help. I’m good. Damn good and yes, intelligent—but this was a complex strategy over a long period of time that needed all the right pieces to fall into place. You enabled us.”