by Trisha Wolfe
“What made you decide to return to the DC area?” I ask, taking the heat off myself for a second. “Are you working Arlington again?”
Sadie sighs. “Not really. I’m here as a consultant. Helping my old partner out on a case. That’s all.”
I raise an eyebrow. “So you secure a long-term rental in DC just for a consultant gig.” She told me before I arrived that she’d rented an apartment, and I was welcome to stay with her for as long as I needed.
“Also, my mother…” She trails off. Sadie has never been one to go into detail about her person life. “I need to keep a place close by to her. But on the job front, let’s just say that I’m leaving the option to return open.” She directs her focus out the window. “It was the only place that actually felt like…home.”
This is a deep profession from Sadie. My college friend has never harbored a connection to any one place, or person. Her previous career had her traveling around Virginia state, profiling criminals. For her to even consider settling in one place means she’s found more than a significant other; she’s formed familial bonds with other people.
A near impossibility for my friend.
“I’m happy for you,” I say, and I mean it.
Her fleeting smile confirms my conclusion. “When we last spoke, you were struggling with countertransference with your patient.” And like that, Sadie is all business. “With all that has happened, tell me why—truthfully—you’re making this trip.”
All that has happened. Inferring to my abduction. Psychological torture. Discovery of my kidnapper and biological parents and sister… All at the hands of Grayson—my patient.
If I was in Sadie’s place, I would seriously consider having myself committed rather than allowing me to leave the country.
I look into her eyes, holding nothing back. “I need the last piece of the puzzle.”
I’m not seeking to uncover lies—Grayson has been truthful. I believe that. But it’s what’s been omitted from his story that will reveal the whole truth.
I’m seeking to discover why Grayson chose me from the start.
“I feel like I’m teetering on a pendulum,” I confess further. “Swinging back and forth between two counterparts. Both equally vital, and equally damaged. The pendulum can’t swing forever, and when it stops, I need to make sure the right person prevails.”
She assesses me closely, that penetrative gaze peels back layer after layer. For once, I’m not afraid of what she’ll find. Sadie is the one person I can trust with my secrets.
She nods solemnly. “When is your departure?”
I check my phone. “Less than an hour,” I say, reassured. “Nine hours to Dublin with the layover in Boston. Quickest and most expensive flight I could find.”
“All right.” She stands.
“Where are you going?”
She swivels around briefly. “To get my passport.”
I hold back a smile as relief crashes over me. While Sadie’s gone, I make quick work of gathering my bag and checking online for updates. Foster is out of critical care but remains hospitalized. Agent Nelson’s presence has been documented from Bangor to Portland. My brow furrows as I fact check the Portland report. What’s in Portland?
Sadie returns as I’m starting to feel anxious. “I’m not sure this is any reassurance,” she says as she places an envelope in my hand. “But it’s unbelievably fortunate that our descriptions match. Hair color. Height. The only marked difference is eye color, and you’ve taken care of that with contacts.”
I consider just how fortunate it is. “I had the contacts already,” I admit. “My doctor offered them to me and I accepted, regardless that I never planned to use them.” I smile and shake my head. “Grayson would say that it’s not a coincidence or luck. That we design our life on purpose. Set things into motion long before we understand that purpose.”
Her eyebrow quirks. “A believer in fate?”
“It’s more like we gravitated to each other early on because our subconscious determined we’d be of value to one another at some point in our life.”
She laughs. “I’ve missed you, London, but not the brain cramps that come with having you as a friend.”
I offer her a sincere smile. “Touché.”
She moves in close and lowers her voice. “I put my driver’s license in the documents, as well as a burner phone and credit card. Ten-thousand limit. Do what you need to do, and we’ll worry about everything else later. Now give me your phone.” At the confused draw of my eyebrows, she says, “So you’re not traced.”
I hand her my cell. “Thank you.” Her trust in me secures my decision. This is the right path. I unearth my wallet and hand her a credit card. She tries to wave it away. “It’s to plant my whereabouts. No limit. Go crazy.”
As she accepts the card, she says, “Well then. Maybe I’ll get my hair done. And a new wardrobe. So I can prance around the city as the distinguished Dr. Noble.” She shakes her hair back, nose in the air.
“Are you mocking me?”
She places her finger an inch apart from her thumb. “Only a little.” Then a serious expression settles over her face. “Be careful.”
I bring her into a hug. I’m surprised when Sadie hugs me back. “I will,” I promise.
I leave then, with my new identity, and only a vague starting point once I arrive in Dublin. Trusting that Grayson and I—that our design—is merely an inevitability and not ill-fated.
My swinging pendulum might be metaphoric to his literal design—but both were set in motion long ago.
17
Devine Monsters
Grayson
Over the past twenty-four hours, Foster’s attack has gone viral. The once-peaceful fanatics and protesters have clashed and began to war with each other. Fights, riots. Hysteria. Cops in riot gear clog the streets. The news is saturated with reports of this brewing insanity. Law officials from across the state are being called in to help reinforce order.
I haven’t slept in as many hours.
The chaos has become a shelter of sorts, helping to keep me hidden while the taskforce focuses their efforts on Bangor. London remains on the reporters’ tongues, but she’s disappeared from the spotlight.
Uneasiness rattles me. Not knowing where she is—where Nelson is—keeps me from sleep. Restlessness is creeping in. I crave a release. The compulsions never stay checked for long.
As I walk the streets, I’m starting to wonder if I’m a contagion, spreading psychosis, infecting minds. It could all be in my head. What I’m witnessing might be a warped sense of the world, and I’m seated in London’s therapy room right now wearing a straightjacket.
I scrub my hands over my face, disoriented, craving caffeine. Sleep deprivation. It’s a fucking killer.
I pull my hoodie down low and head into the daytime work crowd as they navigate Rockland. It’s the same path Nelson takes to the crimes scenes. He passes right by the Refuge.
I duck into the heaving cluster, like little worker ants migrating down the sidewalk. The large wooden sign is a beacon for the bar. Agent Nelson has seen the sign before. Random ads popping out at him online, beckoning him to the bar with a promise of easy targets. Relief.
I take up my post across the street at a coffee shop. Two birds. One stone. I order a large coffee from a hungover barista, then seat myself near the window, where I can keep watch.
By the time I’ve drained the mug, Nelson still hasn’t shown.
I leave a few dollars on the table and then head out. I can’t risk staying in one place for too long. Maybe Nelson can’t risk temptation during the day. As I reemerge into the daylight, pain slices through my skull. Black spots fill my vision.
I move into an alley and press my back to the brick. Breathe through the discomfort. The lingering scent of lilac that still clings to my jacket diffuses some of the pain. I use the reprieve to make it to the bus stop.
I need sleep. Even the greatest minds can’t function without it.
On the r
ide to Bangor, I think about the little China doll girl and her mother. How her situation seemed so easy to fix. Take her mother out of the equation, and she might have a chance at a better life.
Or maybe not.
She could wind up in a terrible foster home with terrible people.
I know all too well about the monsters who prey on the system.
I blink the dark spots from my vision, eyelids heavy. My thoughts are getting muddled. If not for London, I probably would’ve already killed Nelson. It seems the most logical solution.
But if he dies, the proof of his secret persona dies with him.
No one would believe there was a copycat killer. Especially if the finger points to a federal agent.
London’s right. We still need him. Patience.
I keep on the move, circling back to Rockland, sitting on the Refuge in preparation for Nelson. He’ll show up there eventually. But first, I just want a glimpse of London’s building. Just one peek—like a small hit for a junkie. Feeding the cravings. The buss passes her building, and I take in the scene.
A group of protestors circle before the steps. A smile twitches at my mouth when I realize they’re chanting about London.
The protesters are enraged, angered with the system that lets animals like the Angel of Maine free.
I suppose clueing them in to the fact that psychologists have very little to do with government probably wouldn’t help. These people can’t be swayed; they don’t want to be. They’re righteous in their beliefs—no matter how ridiculous. Demanding peace by enforcing the death penalty for convicted murderers.
How ironic.
Their singsong chant gets stuck in my head. I rather like it.
The truth is, we are a violent species. We will never be peaceful. Earth itself was conceived in a womb of violence. She didn’t sneak into the void of space with a whisper to be populated. She burst into existence with a bang—a violent explosion. We are predisposed to violence because it exists in the very atoms we’re made of.
Murder.
War.
Hitler. Genghis Khan. Alexander the Great. They killed in the thousands, millions. They killed for power. They wielded fear and mercy as a weapon. Evil in its purest form. Civilizations were built on the blood they shed.
I’ve heard scholars argue that these men were mad—but what is genius if not madness? Mental illness is a common euphemism for evil.
Very few sadistic killers are actually insane. Quite the opposite. They have to be in control of all their facilities to get away with murder. And to profit from it.
The cheering fanatics worship me and they worship London. Bowing at the foot of her office building, praising her as a goddess, while the protesters spit in their face.
We might as well be gods.
Through the ages, gods have been banished as much as worshiped. The masses loathing their failure, and yet they were always feared. Fear is more powerful than love. Gods have no compassion. That’s how they’re able to slaughter the multitudes.
Someone has to wield that fear, that power. And those who are too weak to stomach the natural order can only hide and judge from their safe corners. We are gods, and we must be feared.
I laugh to myself.
Or, I’m probably just insane.
18
Oceans Apart
London
There’s a reason why I don’t drive.
I curse and try to downshift the gears of the tiny, foreign rental car, grinding as I steer one-handed. I swerve into the wrong lane and quickly right the car. “Dammit.”
I’m a horrible driver.
I landed in Dublin an hour ago, was making good time, until I discovered there were no early morning trains or busses to Kells. With time already against me, my only option was to swallow my fear and rent a car. I used Sadie’s credit card, and here I am, grinding my way down a winding two-lane highway in the wee hours of the morning.
The heavy blackness that blankets the sky isn’t helping, the headlights fogged and barely lighting the road ahead.
I have to be crazy.
Other than the sheer lunacy that got me on a plane to Ireland, I have to be certifiable for trying to track down Grayson’s mother. What do I expect to find?
I check the time on the burner phone. It’s nearing 5:00 a.m. A last-minute search into Rebecca Sullivan gave me her last known address. I can only hope she’s still there, and that knocking on her door at this hour won’t get a door slammed in my face.
I’ve come too far.
Literally.
I spot a small street sign ahead and slow to a rolling crawl before I make the turn. Street lamps illuminate the way through a string of identical brick townhomes. I locate the unit that was Rebecca’s most recent address and park alongside the driveway.
Taking measured breaths, I keep ahold of the wheel. Then I pry my fingers free and leave the warmth of the car. The slam of the car door bounces around the quaint neighborhood. I shake out my hands, thinking of the string in my jacket pocket, as I move up the driveway.
I’m almost to the door when a dog bark makes me flinch, and the porch light flicks on. “Shit.”
I stay right where I am, frozen. Unsure of what happens now, or of my next move.
The front door opens. “Who are you?”
The female voice is rough, like the woman has smoked most of her life. She has a thick Northern Ireland accent, reminding me of the lilt I occasionally hear in Grayson’s deep voice. A pang ricochets through me.
I take a step forward, lift my chin. “Hi. My name is—” I stop myself short of giving her my name out of habit. “Sadie Bonds. I’m with American law enforcement—”
She scoffs. “Aye, I can see that. What do you want this bloody early?”
In the dim light, I can barely make out her face, but she’s dressed in a pale-pink robe, her gray-streaked hair pulled into a messy bun. She aggressively tries to quiet the black lab at her side, and finally claps her hands to send the whining dog back inside.
I stuff my hands into my jacket, the cold morning and my nerves causing me to shiver. “Are you Rebecca Sullivan?”
“For Christ’s sake,” she mutters, shutting the door. When she looks up, I can clearly discern a white scar running the length of her cheek. She quickly brushes a loose hank of hair forward to cover her face. “I thought you people were done with all that. He’s not here. Hasn’t had anything to do with his mother in ages.” She scoffs again. “A damn sight longer than that.”
My shoulders drop, tension deflating from my body. This is not Grayson’s mother. “I’m sorry to have bothered you, ma’am.”
“Now wait.” She tugs her robe together, cinching the belt tight. “Just what do you want with Becky, anyhow?”
She’s not his mother, but she does know where she is. “I have questions. Things only she knows that could help authorities—”
“You won’t be getting any answers from Becky, I tell ya. Might as well go on back to the US of A. The boy won’t be coming here again. Not after what was done to him.”
I squint, trying to follow along with her quick, accented words. “Do you know where I can find Rebecca?”
She waves a hand through the air. “That slag is gone in the head.” When I raise an eyebrow, she clarifies. “Becky’s in the madhouse. Good riddance.”
* * *
As it turns out, the woman currently living in Rebecca’s townhome is her only living relative, who cared for her up until the disability checks stopped. From what I could gather, Becky became a burden, and her sister let the hospital have her. Good riddance was her final avow before she slammed the door in my face.
Another hour of braving the roadways, and I pull into Meadow Health Services, a psychiatric institute seated on the outskirts of Dublin. I drive around the parking lot until I find a spot, then I try to pull up the ward’s information on my phone.
According to the website, the facility isn’t open yet. I release a breathy curse, frustrated. I sl
ept on the plane, so I’m too wired, too out of my element, to rest. “What the hell am I doing here…”
I spend the next hour reading updates online, and as I’m browsing my local news station, my heart cinches. The FBI procured a search warrant for my office. The report states that Agent Nelson is heading up the search.
Of course he is.
I left you a surprise, Nelson.
I now wonder if by asking me to leave Maine, his apparent concern for my safety was more for his benefit—to get me out of the way.
I send a text to both Lacy and Young to ensure at least one of them was present during the search. An alarmed feeling jolts me when neither reply, but then I remember the time difference. Shit. I send another text asking them to please make sure the FBI don’t weasel into my patient files.
I drag a breath into my constricted lungs.
The tapes are blank.
Still, the relief is minimal. It wouldn’t be the first time I deluded myself into believing a false sense of security. My only real concern should be if Agent Nelson isn’t the one to discover what I left behind the Dali. But other than the FBI’s own personal distaste for my evident obsessive affection for my patient, there’s nothing much they can do with that in the way of evidence.
I was careful to stage it just right.
A car door slams, snagging my attention. I look up to find a man walking toward the facility. I quickly pocket the phone and grab the keys. I trail the man toward the front of the building.
“Excuse me,” I say, jogging to catch up.
He turns around, his thin white hair catching the chilly breeze. “Yes? How can I help you?”
“You’re American.” It comes out like an accusation, and the man smiles.
“I am in fact. Are you lost?”
“No, sorry,” I say, regrouping my thoughts. “I’m here to visit a patient.”
His smile thins. “Visiting hours aren’t until nine.”
He turns to go, and I try again. “I apologize, but I’m only here for a very short time…and it’s extremely important that I see this patient. Could you at least help me speak to someone, mister…?”