“Neither do I. But I think the killer does.”
I could feel my heart starting to race, sick fear winding up from my ankles like someone was wrapping my bones in freezing, wet silk. “This is math,” I snapped, waving my hand at the chalkboard. “It’s as far from magic as you can get!”
“The world runs on math,” he said. “You said so yourself. It’s a universal language. Spells used to be written in old English because that’s what they used back then. But if you were creating a spell now, wouldn’t math be the perfect language?”
I was shaking my head, nauseous at the thought of something I loved being twisted into— “No. No! Math isn’t—It’s about hard science, it’s nothing like magic!”
“You said that some of the equations were to do with astrophysics. Wormholes. That’s like a rip in space, right? A door that connects two different places? Sounds a lot like magic to me.”
A flash of lightning lit up the chalkboards. Even written out in white chalk, the equations suddenly looked unsettling. I remembered how they’d looked at the crime scenes, written in glossy, dark blood. How the killer had formed them into disturbing patterns. Tentacled monsters. Spiders.
Calahan was right. I looked up at him, and I could feel that I’d gone pale, too.
“I’m not saying I believe in it,” he said gently. “Only that the killer does.”
I thought about what this meant. It explained a lot. “This is why the time and place and who he’s going to kill next are written at the scene,” I said. “He’s not bragging to the police, he’s working it out. Each... sacrifice is a spell and part of the spell tells him what to do next. That’s why the locations are so random: he’s not choosing them willingly, he’s going where the numbers tell him.”
“So the spell’s in four parts,” said Calahan. “He wrote rough drafts of all four in that rented apartment. Now he’s doing each part in turn. Two so far, two to go. What’s it for?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean: spells do something, right? They put a curse on someone or they make someone fall in love or whatever, so what does this one do?”
I shook my head. “I haven’t been able to figure out the main body of it. I don’t know if I’m not smart enough, or not crazy enough. But…”
“What?”
Maybe it was the darkness or the rain rushing down the windows outside, but it suddenly felt very cold. I wrapped my arms around myself. “Those letters that turned out to be Latin, Welcome, Satan… they tie in early on. If the spell is a machine, that part’s like the power source.”
“And what does it do? I mean, what would it do, if it was real?”
I thought about all the parts I hadn’t solved yet, the stuff to do with wormholes and string theory. The more advanced you get in physics, the weirder it gets. Particles called charm and strangeness. Black holes. The God particle. And the killer had taken all that and created a spell with it, supposedly powered by the devil, penned in the blood of people said to be witches.
“What does it do?” I echoed. “I don’t know. But it scares the shit out of me.”
Calahan closed the distance between us in two quick strides. He dropped to his knees, wrapped his arms around my back and pulled me into him so that my chin was on his shoulder and his stubble rasped against my cheek. My whole upper body pressed against the warm, hard wall of his chest and abs. “Me too,” he admitted.
I squeezed him tight and he squeezed me tight and we stayed like that while the lightning flashed and the rain pounded down. This case was taking its toll on both of us. It didn’t matter that this stuff wasn’t real. There was something about it that was unsettling on a deep, primal level. We needed each other: we were the only two people in the world who understood.
Gradually, we calmed... and the mood shifted. Neither of us moved, but I became aware of his lips, almost brushing my earlobe, and how my breasts were pressed tight against his pecs.
We’d hugged because we needed to. Now we were holding each other because we wanted to.
A tension started to build. My fingertips were throbbing with the feel of his body. The temptation to just go exploring, to roam over the hard muscles of his back, was almost too much to resist. And I could feel him toying with my hair, rubbing a lock of it between his fingers. I started to breathe faster, and with every breath I inhaled the intoxicating scent of him—
He suddenly pushed me back, just enough that he could stare into my eyes. I swallowed, my chest tight. His lips parted. Was he about to—
He jumped to his feet and turned away from me. His hands bunched into fists: he was teetering on the edge of control. Then he shook his head savagely and pulled out his phone. “I’m going to need to bring Carrie up to speed on all this,” he said. He started to type out a message.
I just stared at him, my heart breaking. Something was wrong. It wasn’t the first time he’d pulled away, just as I thought something was going to happen. But it was different, tonight. He was different. I’d seen it in his eyes earlier and I could see it again now. I was worried about him.
I swallowed and looked away. “I’ll come. You’ll need me to explain the math.”
He looked up, surprised. Remembering how much I’d hated visiting the FBI last time.
I set my jaw and stared back at him, determined. I wasn’t going to desert him when he needed me most.
“Thanks,” he said with feeling. More typing. “OK, we’re meeting her first thing tomorrow morning.”
I nodded. This time, I’d dig out a suit and blouse so that at least I didn’t feel so underdressed.
Calahan shoved his phone in his pocket and moved towards the door. “I gotta get going.”
I rolled after him. “Calahan?” He didn’t turn around. “Sam?”
He was already halfway out the door. He stopped, but he didn’t turn around.
“You okay?” I asked.
He turned just long enough to look me in the eye and I saw that I was right. That pain he always carried inside had bubbled right up to the surface. He’d been able to fight it back down when he was telling me about the spell, but now it was back.
“I’m fine.” His voice was ragged.
I opened my mouth to say something... but the door slammed shut and he was gone.
I tried to convince myself that everything was okay. I told myself it was just my imagination. I was upset because I’d thought he was about to kiss me and then he didn’t, and so I was assuming something must be wrong….
But it wasn’t that. I’d gotten to know him pretty well, over the last few days. I’d never seen him like this.
I managed to work for two hours before I couldn’t bear it any more. I had to know that he was okay. I messaged him, letting him know how I was doing with the equations. No reply. I tried again, ten minutes later. Still no reply. And he always answered messages, he was never not working.
I’d promised I’d never hack him again. But this was different, I was worried.
Within minutes, I’d tracked his phone’s location. He was in a bar across town. From the photos I found online, it was a real dive. See? He’s fine. He’s just having a drink. You’re not his mother. I leaned back in the chair.
But that look I’d seen in his eyes. I knew what it was like to lose someone you loved. Every day was hard. But tonight, he’d seemed—
Tonight.
I lurched forward and grabbed for the mouse. Brought up the messages between Becky and him and scrolled right to the very end.
The last message was sent four years ago today. It was the anniversary of...oh, God, Calahan!
There was a roll of thunder. The storm was right on top of us and through the window, I could see the rain hammering my stone balcony, pouring in torrents out of the mouths of the gargoyles. Driving was going to be hell and when I got there, there was no way I’d get parked right outside. I’d have to wheel myself down dark streets surrounded by drunks in a bad area of town.
But he needed me.
I grabbed my pur
se and headed for the door.
27
Calahan
I SAT AT THE BAR, hunched low, hand gripping the whiskey glass. The bartender knew by now to refill it when it emptied. I’d stopped counting after eight.
I drank and I thought. I thought about meeting Becky for the first time and how I’d followed her band like some crazed stalker, going to every gig, in the hope of talking to her again. I thought about our first date and the first time I’d kissed her. I thought about the first time we’d had sex, in the backseat of my car, way out of town on a dirt road, after we’d broken down.
And when I’d thought about all of that, I just relived the day she died. Everything I’d said. Everything I hadn’t said. Every wrong decision I’d made. All building up to that moment, that one second, when I tried to wake her up—
And then I relived it again. And again and again and again.
Any man would have been lucky to have her. Any other man, any other man and she’d still be here, alive and singing and telling bad jokes and never being able to find her butterfly hair clip. Why did she have to fall for me?
If I could change it, if I could go back in time and change it so we never met, but she was alive, I’d do it in a heartbeat. She’d deserved better. She’d cut through all my jadedness, made me see the city in a new way, through her eyes. And now that unique perspective was gone forever. No one else would ever know her.
Thanks to me.
I knew what needed to happen. It had been coming ever since that day, creeping towards me each time I dreamed of her and woke up alone. It had gained ground when friends at the FBI, like Kate and Hailey, moved away. I just hadn’t had the guts...until now.
My plan was simple. Lock the door from the inside, sit on a chair, put the gun against my head…. I was determined to make it as easy as possible for whichever cop ended up investigating. I’d never been much good with words, but I’d force myself to write some kind of note, just to remove any doubt. Each drink made the self-hate burn hotter. Each reliving of that day made the guilt mount, black waves of it hammering against the dam, cracking it open—
I drained my glass, slammed it down, and tossed some bills on the counter. I got up from my stool, turned around and—
For a second, I thought I was seeing things. She couldn’t be here, in this place. She didn’t belong in a place like this.
Yolanda looked me up and down. “I’m taking you home,” she said firmly.
I gawped at her. Then I shook my head, which sent the room spinning. “Fuck off,” I slurred, and turned back to the bar. I felt a stab of shame as soon as I’d said it. But why couldn’t she just leave me alone?
The hiss of tires behind me. Other drinkers muttering as they moved aside to let her past. She stopped right behind me and I could feel her eyes boring into my head.
I finally turned to look at her. Her hair was tangled and windswept. Her clothes were soaked and the wheels of her chair were glistening with dirty water: she looked like she’d gone through every puddle in New York. And God, she must have come through the backstreets to get here. At night, in this neighborhood.
For me.
The thought terrified me and the fear came out as anger. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“I told you,” she said. “I’m taking you home.”
“I’m going home!”
She cocked her head to one side and glared at me. But when she spoke, I could hear the concern in her voice. “Not alone, you’re not.”
I froze. Did she know what I was planning? Stupid. Of course she didn’t. How could she? But the look in her eyes….
Enough of this. I headed for the door again, stepping around her. But she was faster than me. She shot forward and got in front of me and suddenly there wasn’t enough room for my feet. I staggered and fell forward, catching myself on the arms of the wheelchair. Our faces were a foot apart.
I scowled at her. I can be intimidating, when I want to be. I’ve stared down mobsters and junkies, guys with guns. I was twice her size—
She didn’t shrink back. She looked me right in the eye. “You can stay here and argue or you can come with me. But I’m not letting you out of my sight. Not tonight.”
Goddammit, she’s as stubborn as me. My scowl faded and I just stared at her. She wouldn’t give up on me. No matter how many times I pushed her away.
Without warning, all the feelings I had for her slammed into me, so powerful I could barely breathe. Things I hadn’t admitted even to myself. Things I never thought I’d feel again.
But feeling those things made the pain and guilt rise up like a tidal wave and sluice through me. I actually staggered and would have hit the floor if I wasn’t holding Yolanda’s chair.
I had to fight my feelings for Yolanda. I had to fight the guilt and loss. That left me nothing to fight her. When Yolanda put her hand on my arm, her cool skin soothing and calm, I couldn’t find the strength to push it away. I muttered a curse...and nodded.
She led me out of the bar and through the rain-slick streets. I was stumbling-drunk, the world hazy and muffled with just occasional flashes of sharp memory. I remember being horrified at how far she’d had to wheel herself and how scary it must have been. I remember reaching her car and her helping me in. I must have dozed off as she drove because the next thing I remember is struggling to get my key in my lock and then stumbling into the elevator in my apartment block. And then I was slumping forward and my bed was coming up to meet me.
28
Yolanda
“Calahan?”
No response. He’d hit the bed like a sack of potatoes and now he was out. God, how much had he drunk? He was going to have one hell of a hangover when he woke up.
I leaned back in the chair and watched him, relieved but worried at the same time. For now, he couldn’t hurt himself but what about tomorrow, and the next day, and the next?
One step at a time. One thing was for sure: I wasn’t leaving him alone tonight.
For the first time, I looked around at his place. It was a small apartment, just big enough for one person. It could have been cozy but he hadn’t decorated it that way. He hadn’t decorated it at all.
There was a sun-bleached and heavily patched punch bag swinging from a hook in the corner: that must be how he stayed fit. There was a picture of him shaking hands with—wait, was that the President? I lifted it down and looked more closely. No doubt about it, that was him. When had that happened?
The tables and other surfaces were covered with paperwork. Old FBI case files, cold cases dating back twenty years. This is how he spends his time. He works his ass off all day and then he comes home and tries to catch the bad guys who got away.
I silently wheeled myself over to the bed and watched him sleep. I remembered what he’d told me about his school days and why he’d joined the FBI. He might be a reluctant hero but he was a crusader. Once he took a case, he wouldn’t back down, wouldn’t quit. I understood that sort of merciless focus but I knew the price it extracted from you, too. We all need someone to decompress with, to offload to. I’d had my brother and when I’d lost him, I’d retreated from the outside world. Calahan had had Becky and when he’d lost her, he’d buried himself in bars, one night stands and cold cases. Spiraling down and down until, tonight—
I reached out and put a hand on his cheek, his stubble rough against my palm, and all the feelings I’d been having for him swelled up, filling me until it felt like I’d burst. Calahan!
I stayed that way until morning.
29
Calahan
“Calahan?”
I vaguely remembered that that was me, but being awake was much too painful so I burrowed further into sleep.
“Calahan?”
That voice, though. That almost made the pain worth it. So soft and calming, like the wind gently sighing through a forest. A voice I recognized….
“Calahan!”
I remembered where I’d heard it before. I jerked awake, blinking and
rolling over on my side and—
ARGH! Opening my eyes was like staring into the sun. And as soon as I moved, someone started pounding my head with a sledgehammer and everything in my stomach tried to leave. I screwed my eyes shut and kept very, very still.
“Here.” That beautiful voice again. “Drink this.”
A cool glass was pushed into my hand. I drank deeply, tasting Alka-Seltzer, and started to take stock. The pillow, the bed...that all felt familiar. This was my place. But then how was I hearing her voice?
I cracked my eyes open, just a narrow slit, and—
“Hi,” said Yolanda shyly.
I just stared at her in complete incomprehension.
“I would have let you sleep,” she said. “But we’ve got that meeting with Carrie. You need to get in the shower.”
Slowly, horrifyingly, it started to come back to me. The bar. The drinking. Deciding to end it all. And then her arriving, and—
Telling her to fuck off.
It was a blank, after that. But she must have gotten me home and then....she stayed here all night?
I wanted to speak but I couldn’t. I was sweating and nauseous and my mouth felt like sandpaper. So I just let my expression say it. Why?
She gave me a nervous smile. “Partners, right?”
I stared at her and—dammit, I couldn’t stop it. I was too exhausted and hungover to hide it and I knew it was shining through like a goddamn searchlight. I was helplessly, hopelessly, besotted with this woman.
I nodded and looked at the floor, and she looked away into the corner. “Partners,” I agreed. Then, with only a little help from the bedpost, I levered myself up and staggered off to the shower.
I turned it on ice cold. The world snapped into focus and my brain came awake. What if she suspects? What if she guessed I was planning to end it all? The idea was horrifying. No one suspected how close to the edge I was, not even Carrie. I couldn’t let anyone find out. I was ashamed enough already.
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