by Trisha Wolfe
Her eyes narrow. “I’m not surprised you discovered the truth,” she says. “Just surprised it took you this long.”
I mock laugh. “I didn’t think your buttons could be pushed so easily. Glad to see you do reflect some human emotion.”
She turns her head away, stares at the whiteboard. “Are we really doing this?”
“What?”
When she looks at me, her face is devoid of any anger. But it’s also absent of hurt or emotion. She’s a pro at stoicism. “I don’t want us to be enemies, Quinn.”
“You’re right,” I say, pushing off the desk. “Neither do I. I might end up dead.”
“Fine.” She tosses her hands in the air. “Pout. Be pissed off, righteous anger guy. But just remember, it was you who refused the truth when I offered it to you.” Eyes drilled hard on me, she waits for a reaction I’m not going to give. “With or without you, I won’t let Avery get hurt. She’s been through hell, and I won’t let her go back there.”
This does trigger a reaction. “That hell? The one where she was tortured, beat with a cane for the whole department to witness? That hell she suffered was because of a fucked up situation you created when you went outside of the law to hunt and kill Lyle Connelly.”
There it is. The root of my anger.
“And then,” I say, “you dragged her further into that hell when you implemented her in the murder of Price Wells. You need to stop, Sadie. You need to stop before you destroy her. She’s not—” I look down, jaw clenched.
“Me,” she whispers in answer.
I look up and stare into her green eyes, impassive. “She’s not you. That’s right. She feels what you’re not capable of feeling. Guilt. Remorse. Even for those who deserve the death penalty, she understands that punishment shouldn’t come at her hands. It shouldn’t come at any of our hands. We’re not executioners.”
“You’re right.” Sadie glances through the glass wall, shielding her face from me. Beyond this office, there’s a flurry of chaos, no one aware of the battle that rages within. It’s just another day on the job. Agent Bonds and Detective Quinn arguing, as usual.
But this is no ordinary struggle of wills.
I see that as soon as Sadie’s able to look at me again. Eyes wide, they shimmer with something I’ve never seen from her before. Tears. It rips through me with brutal force, decimating and destructive.
“You’re right,” she says again. “I didn’t want to drag her into my world, but I did. And her suffering was the consequences of my actions.”
A chest-crushing exhale pushes free. “Sadie… Fuck.”
“I can’t change the past, Quinn. If I could, I’d have done so much differently. For Avery’s sake. Back then, I never expected to feel…” She trails off, and a single tear slips free. “I never expected to feel. Period. I never thought I’d be capable of caring for others, but God. I care about Avery, and I even care about you. And I don’t want to see anyone else suffer.” She wipes hard at her cheek, then stares at the wetness on her hand in disbelief. “All I can do now is make sure that every loose end, that every threat, is eliminated. It’s the one thing I’m good at.”
She takes off toward the door. I’m there in a heartbeat to grab her arm and pull her to a stop. “I actually don’t want to be your enemy, Sadie. That’s not what I want for us.”
She swallows hard. “But now that you know the truth, can you ever look at me the same?”
She pulls away from me, and I let her. No—I can’t look at her the same. But I haven’t been able to since that night in the hospital. When faced with the ugly truth of a person’s unvarnished existence, it takes one hell of a person to see past it.
And I’m not a saint.
“That’s what I thought,” she says. “If you handle the Feds, keep their attention diverted elsewhere, I’ll make sure this ends tonight.”
She leaves then, and all I can do is stare at the fucking floor. My mind a twisted, tangled web. Despite what I said in the heat of the moment, Sadie is exactly the hero Avery needs right now.
Someone determined to go to any extreme to protect the person they love.
Am I angry with Sadie because I really believe she’s at fault, or because I envy her ability to do what’s necessary at any cost?
I shut my door and pull out my phone, punch in Carson’s contact. He answers on the first ring. “Head to Lark and Gannet now,” I say, then end the call before he can ask questions. I make another call to Larkin before I let my mind start rationalizing.
“I’m sending Carson your way,” I say to him. “Make sure he’s prepped and ready to go in tonight.”
“I’m impressed, detective,” Larkin says, and I can hear the arrogance in his voice. He thinks he’s won, that I’ve stepped over my hard-drawn line in the sand. “Mister Carson will be well on his way to the elite by this evening. I’ve already prepared additional security measures. Just think: your career will be made by the end of the night.”
I hang up.
By the end of the night, I won’t have a career. The plan is not to bring in the Alpha; it’s to end the threat.
For good.
13
Identity Crisis
Avery
Despite fighting my way into a fitful sleep, I slept undisturbed, not even stirring at three a.m. to the usual rocking—the never-ending motion of the boat that haunts my nights. Once the letter was written, and the truth as I want to present it was made manifest, my screams didn’t break the night, my nightmares held back as if Quinn’s hand never left mine.
Quinn had already left by the time I woke, leaving behind his own letter. Which didn’t acknowledge my statement, only reiterated in his own candid, protective way that I wasn’t to leave his apartment without officer detail.
I didn’t need them. I planned to accept Aubrey’s offer to oversee my lab so I could take the day off. I’m not needed at the lab, anyway—not really. My emotional state is causing anxiety for my techs, and I know what a hectic work environment that creates.
It’s stressful enough as it is. The pressure to examine five victims and then reexamine every time new information is discovered by a detective. I usually excel under pressure, but there’s a limit, and nothing within me wanted to meet that challenge this morning.
For one short moment, when I first awoke in Quinn’s bed, with his masculine scent embracing me, it was bliss. A blank slate, the mind empty of all painful memories, and then the flood of awareness. The violent reminder of trying to atone for my sins was accompanied with physical pain, tangible proof that I’m mentally devolving.
I dread Sadie’s reaction when she discovers I put our secret into words. Given Quinn hard evidence to tie me to Price Wells. I penned the letter to him in a fit of delirium, and I’m not even sure what I divulged—other than I took full responsibility.
Sadie’s name was not mentioned. Every action she took to plot and execute Wells’ demise, I claimed for myself. Regardless if Quinn will puzzle out all the altered details behind my statement, the proof I provided him will only testify that I killed my abductor.
There is liberation in acceptance.
I didn’t even feel this free when I was unshackled from that dungeon.
I’m not a martyr—I don’t think that highly of myself; I’m not selfless. I’m just doing what’s right by the woman who avenged me.
Will I see that look in Sadie’s eyes afterward? The one that pities me for being so weak?
The truth is: I’m not as strong as her. I’m not sure if that revelation calms or frightens me, but I’m at least certain in my role. I’m not her.
Wells dressed me like her, made me relive the torture she endured. She was only sixteen when she was abducted and exposed to this world’s cruelty. Somehow, she survived, and she channeled her painful experience into strength, where she not only stands up to monsters like her abductor; she seeks them out. Punishes them. Her existence in this turbulent world means less people will suffer because of her.
Me? I barely escaped my dungeon. Having felt what Sadie did broke me. I put myself together for a short time, but I also used alcohol and my designer aphrodisiac just to feel normal.
Then when confronted with having to live that torture all over again…I cracked. Within twenty-four hours, I’ve exposed Sadie and myself, and now I’m tempted to expose us even further—
—just to make it end. Just to hear the blessed hum of silence and to make the inner voice shouting in my head shut the hell up.
“The fuming chamber is ready, Doctor Johnson,” Natalie says, awakening me from my destructive daze.
I run my forearm across my brow, wiping at the clamminess of my skin. The humidity in the lab is stifling. “Thanks, Natalie. Please let Doctor Paulson know we’re about to begin.”
She trots off, always striving to impress. She’ll make a good medical examiner in my absence. I should be alarmed at how at ease I am with that realization, but I’m not. I’m complacent.
I’m simply tired and ready for the relief that follows once I no longer have to hide my secrets. Repentance has to be the next step.
With gloved hands, I prep the hotplate, setting the temperature to 260 Fahrenheit. The process of lifting a latent fingerprint from a dead body is not an easy one. Rather, it’s downright impossible, unless the body was preserved in an ideal environment. Aubrey called this morning, sure he’d discovered a possible fingerprint on the back neck area of vic number five. There was no taking today off. There was no alternative.
I have to be here.
Aside from the third vic donning my lab coat, the Alpha made no other threats—leaving me to believe the other victims were simply discarded merchandise; test subjects no longer of use. If there is an auction tonight, keeping the ACPD busy chasing a killer is an ideal distraction. A sick logic, but the Alpha sacrificed some so the rest remain unseen.
We can’t even begin to speculate as to how many abducted women are still out there, either awaiting a horrific death, or about to be auctioned off.
With or without Quinn by my side tonight, I will attempt to stop this. For now, Sadie is still invested in seeing this to the end. So I can’t let the masked man’s threat to expose me and my role in Wells’ murder prevent tonight from happening. Being taken in for questioning cannot happen. And that’s why I’m here—to make sure that whatever message the Alpha may have planted on this vic remains a mystery until this is over.
I slip on my mask.
I have no doubt that the Alpha and his lackeys are practiced enough not to leave behind something so careless as a fingerprint. If there is one on this vic, I’m almost certain it was left on purpose, with the intent for me to find.
“The lab has been cleared,” Aubrey says as he approaches. His glasses are in place, and he’s wearing a mask. “How many times have you performed this procedure?”
I glance at Natalie, glad they’re both unaware of the unsure expression I wear beneath my mask. “None,” I admit. “If you haven’t noticed, the M.E.’s lab isn’t equipped for this kind of forensics. Usually, in a case like this, I’d have the body transported to the forensics’ lab.” I crack open a tube of cyanoacrylate, and drop a measured amount of superglue onto the hotplate inside the chamber.
Aubrey slowly increases the humidity level, and the chamber fills with vapor. “I’m impressed your assistants were able to build this chamber in such short notice. You have a tight and skilled crew here.”
I really do. And they’ve managed to persevere in spite of so many setbacks and difficulties. Like when Simon was declared a serial killer. And Carmen was attacked by Simon and hospitalized. She never returned, but I don’t fault her. No one does. They kept on, and that’s why I know they’ll brave what’s to happen next.
The fumed body of the drowned vic lays face-down on the steel autopsy table. Her secrets awaiting to be revealed. The fuming process was successful; the cyanoacrylate affixed to her bloated skin without fail. And I have to wonder if her death was designed for this specific purpose; if the Alpha is so meticulous they submerged her body in water to create the perfect canvas to plant a latent fingerprint.
I watch Aubrey dust the black fingerprint powder along the back of the vic’s neck, delicately twirling the wand, the bristles tapping an image to life. And there it is: one flawless print.
“That developed rather nicely,” he says, pride evident in his voice.
It did develop nicely. There was some debate over whether to use magnetic powder, but in the end, we agreed the iron-rich content of the powder would be too abrasive and may wear away the print.
I should’ve pushed for the magnetic powder. I should’ve dusted the print myself. I could still save myself…if I step forward now to lift the print. Just one smudge, one slip of my fingers, and all this will go away.
I squeeze my eyes closed and quell the fiery ache gripping my chest.
It’s too late. Quinn already knows the truth, and he’s bound by his oath to expose it. To expose me. That’s why he didn’t stay with me last night, why he couldn’t face me this morning. He may be struggling with his conscience, battling when to do just that—but he will. He will do what’s ultimately right.
I glance at the time on my phone and then flip on my camera. While Aubrey is preparing the reagents and lifting tape, I snap a couple shots of the print.
Soon, Aubrey has a clean, sealed fingerprint. He holds it up to the florescent light. “Don’t you find it conspicuous that a lone print was found in this particular place.” He tilts the screen, angling his head. “It doesn’t make sense. You don’t move a body by the neck. Why would a print be there?”
I suck in a sharp breath. “I see this place has you speculating and working out theories,” I say, masking the quiver in my voice.
He looks at me, a thin smile on his handsome face. “Touché.” He lowers the screen and places it in a manila folder. “Should get this to the actual case solvers right away. Would be even more surreal to actually get a hit from this print on one of the databases.”
And my stomach bottoms out. That’s exactly what I fear: the unknown—the element of surprise.
“Keep me posted.” I turn to head toward my office.
“Don’t you want to come with?” he asks.
I pause. “I have a couple reports to finish in my office, and then…I don’t know.” I shrug. “I may just actually take the rest of the day off.”
His smile warms. “I think that’s a good idea, Avery. I’ll message you with any updates.”
I return his smile before I take off, my breath held until I’m able to lock my office door behind me. I release the air from my lungs in a hard expel, lightheaded. The FBI M.E. has turned out to be an asset rather than a hindrance, and it pains me that I can’t enjoy this shared learning experience between us.
Pulling my laptop from my bag, I set up on my desk quickly. I have the image of the print scanned into my program and running a search before I can talk myself out of it.
I keep copies of the lab files in a program I coded myself for easy reference. And when I get a hit, my chest implodes. Light and sound flickers in and out.
A face rolls across the screen, a red flashing print to its right.
Price Alexander Wells.
“Fuck.”
I’m sure there are many other, more elegant ways to express my world falling down around me, but not this second.
I’m fucked.
Not even Quinn will be able to explain away how a dead man’s fingerprint ended up on a murder victim.
14
The Summit
Quinn
When I look back over my life, after I’ve become an old retired, washed-out detective with a back brace and arthritic joints, I wonder if this moment—this pivotal moment—will be my ultimate failure or biggest triumph.
A triumph over myself, that is, for making my own rules, not being afraid to go against the grain of justice to protect those I love.
Either way, I won’t regret my cho
ice. Some things we just have to accept in spite of ourselves. Who we originally believed we wanted to be.
I imagine Sadie had to have given herself this lecture at some point. Right before she made a decisive judgment call to kill a perpetrator who would otherwise go unpunished, would continue to hurt and murder, and she rationalized if she didn’t do it, didn’t tip the scales of justice in her favor, the injustice would continue.
Hell, I don’t know if she ever battled her conscience at all. Maybe it was as easy as flipping a coin for her; heads she knifes them, tails she shoots them.
I scrub my hands down my face, detesting the smell of leather and coffee filtering through Larkin’s building. The main conference room has become a surveillance hub, equipped with numerous monitors and equipment I’m not even sure how Larkin got his hands on.
I don’t want to know. I’m here for one purpose, and when that purpose walks into the room, my heart fucking stops.
I recognize Avery—but if you didn’t know her, really know her, then she’d float through the room as a tantalizing stranger. Her blond hair is now a thick, rich auburn brown. Her face glows, a fair porcelain, with contrasting dark makeup shadowing her eyes and lips. Smoky and elegant, she’s any man’s fantasy.
She wraps her arms around her waist, shrinking beneath a satin dress, but Alexis pushes Avery’s hands back to her sides, forcing her to lift her head and look the part of a bought and owned sex toy.
My feet are moving me toward her before my brain catches up.
“Only bow your head when you’re in the presence of your Master,” Alexis tells Avery. “Don’t talk to any other men unless Carson gives you permission. Don’t look into their eyes; that’s an insult to your Master.”
Alexis continues to give Avery instructions as my eyes rake over the black dress and exposed skin. The scars I felt along that skin have been concealed, along with the deep gash that runs the length of her bottom lip and chin. My fingers curl into fists as I tamp down the urge to run my thumb over her lips and wipe the makeup away.