Grayson

To avoid suspicion, I use the facilities at a nearby park to change into my regular street clothes. Then I discard the stolen uniform into a trash bin. I’ve missed the scheduled bus to Portland by less than fifteen minutes. It’s a greater risk, but instead of waiting half an hour in the city where my face is best known for the next bus, I hail a cab.

The clear partition between the driver and me feels foreboding. Reminiscent of the day the police stormed my apartment with a search warrant and hauled me into a squad car. Good times.

Out of habit, I pick up on little details of the driver’s life that’s sporadically placed around the taxi.

His ID states he’s twenty-three. He has a picture of a young woman in the visor. His cell lights up with an image of the same girl. He’s missed three calls from Skylar already, and he promptly sends her to voicemail. I glance in the rearview mirror and note the dark circles under his eyes. He’s too young to carry so much stress.

On closer inspection, I catch a glimpse of an appointment card as he tucks it into the console. The emblazoned letters on the card read: OB-GYN.

The driver is about to embark on a new beginning in his life, and like most of us, he’s fighting the change.

As stolen children, London and I never knew our beginning. It was ripped away by monsters in the night. Thieves of innocence. Our precious first moments in this world tainted, erased.

Unlike London, I have a select number of memories of my life before. I suppose that makes me different in some way—not unique, but rather, conditioned. Less born to this world and more like I’ve adapted.

We were not born the day we took our first breath. We were born the moment we stole it.

I said these words to London, and the truth of that statement still haunts me as much as her darkly golden eyes.

London has been digging into my past.

In the same way that I’m prone to gather details of the driver’s life, London’s office harbors clues to her furtive dealings. Message logs to a forensics’ lab. Searches on her computer on my hometown. A genealogy report.

I could argue that, as a psychologist, London needs to examine and understand my beginning in a professional sense, but she’s mostly just curious. The scars on my body read like a roadmap to her—and she needs to follow those roads to my start. Discover the inciting incident that created the monster.

We were both casualties in a sense. The loss we suffered not mortal but a death of self. Our identities traumatized. Forced to rebuild our psyche with chipped and flawed fragments.

But we were gifted something else in the process.

Insight.

Have you ever received a present only to be disappointed once the shiny wrapping paper was torn away to reveal the contents? What if you never had to feel that disappointment again. Always having an understanding of the inner nature of how things work, of what to expect from others.

Sounds alluring. There’s a tradeoff, though. With this perception comes not just the prospect to never again be disappointed, but to never be surprised, either. That brief moment of astonishment when you get the unexpected.

People live for that shit.

My whole life, London has been my only surprise.

I tore off the wrapping paper and dove in with only a veiled idea of the contents…and she was so much more than I expected.

She’s the glossy present I never dreamed I’d receive.

I desperately want not to break her.

London needs to stop digging.

Muscles tense, I stare into the head beams reflected in the taxi’s side-view mirror. The same blue sedan has been tailing the cab since we left downtown.

“Let me out here,” I tell the driver.

He sends me a confused look in the mirror. “I can’t stop here.”

“Pull onto the median,” I say, growing impatient. I slide fifty dollars through the slat in the divider.

“All right, man. You got it.”

Parked on the side of the highway, I watch the blue sedan pass us. I get out of the cab and motion for the driver to roll the window down. “Marry the girl and get a better job. The choice between being a father and a cab driver should be a no-brainer.”

His eyes widen in alarm, but I pat the taxi’s rooftop and walk off before he finds the words to confront me. What can I say? Deep down, I’m a rather nice guy.

Eastbound, I head across the next highway over. I stop and wait along the side of the median. When I spot the sedan taking the exit up ahead, I curse.

I could run, evade the mystery man—but I’m curious. There’s no line of flashing blue and red lights barreling down the highway. If I’d been reported by someone, the cops would have shown up by now.

The mystery man doesn’t keep me waiting long. The sedan heads this way, coming right at me. I step into the brush along the highway to conceal myself, but I make sure he spots me first. The car slows to a crawl as it pulls onto the shoulder.

Cars rush past on the highway, and I use the distraction of a blaring horn to dip farther into the buffer of trees. If this guy has been on my tail since Bangor, he’s not giving up now.

He wants me badly. And he wants me to himself.

I clear the trees and enter the back parking lot of a large supercenter. This space is too open, too public. I do a quick scan from the incline and notice a church steeple in the near distance.

I smile. Perfect. Destination decided, I round the lot toward the side of the building. I don’t move too quickly, so as not to lose him. This guy isn’t stealthy, despite what he probably thinks. I can hear his heavy footfalls on the gravel as I ease alongside the building.

The town is a one-shot stop. It’s main purpose to serve travelers passing through. Which means the road is practically vacant once I cut across Main Street. One street lamp sits in front of the otherwise darkened church.

Behind the small brick structure is a graveyard. It’s a little cliché, giving chase in a cemetery, but open gravesites make great conversational pieces.

His footsteps near, and I locate a decent-sized headstone to dip behind. From here, I can make out his wide profile. He’s winded and bends over to catch his breath. Then, as he rights himself, he cups his hand over his mouth and sparks a lighter. A hazy orange flare blooms against the night. Smoke wafts up, a thin tendril slithering toward the streetlight.

He starts in the opposite direction, so I toe up a rock and kick it. The stone smacks a headstone. The man jerks to a stop, then pulls a gun from his holster as he heads into the cemetery. The adrenaline of the hunt surges through my veins like molten lava. It’s intoxicating. Nearly my favorite drug.

I stand behind a tree, camouflaged by the dark, as he flicks the cherry off the cigarette and pockets the butt. Very considerate of him.

When I fear he’s about to give up the chase, I make myself known. I walk right up behind him and, as he’s invested in lighting another cigarette, wrap my sculpting wire around his neck.

His folds of fat prevent me from getting a good hold. I choke up on the wire, muscles straining. A couple shocked seconds, then he lashes out, fighting as he tries to pry the wire loose. He backs into me, struggling, before I’m able to lower him to the ground.

During the scuffle, he dropped his gun. When he’s close to blacking out, I relax the wire and allow him to pull in a wheezing breath. I pick up the gun and slip it into my waistband.

“You must be the bravest cop, or the stupidest,” I say, moving into a blade of moonlight so he can see my face.

Detective Foster coughs, his eyes bulging against the pressure. It’s a few more seconds before he’s able to talk. “Sullivan…” He sputters, inhales a rattling breath.

“Smoking is a killer.” I kneel beside him and flick my switchblade out.

Hand to his throat, Foster eyes the blade. “Fuck you.”

Foster is a surprise. One of those rare gifts. I wasn’t expecting this kind of boldness from the cumbersome detective. The pressure of his job must be getting to him to make such a rash move.

“I knew you couldn’t keep away from her,” he says, finally catching his breath. “And I knew she was in on it. Just had to keep watching and waiting. I knew you’d show.”

He gets points for persistence. I’ve been focused on Nelson as more of a threat over Foster. But there’s something to be said for his shear obstinacy. I rotate the knife, catching the light. “There’s a flaw in your plan, detective. Where’s your backup?”

His jaw sets, gaze narrowed. Stubborn.

I nod once. Then I flip open his trench coat. “I noticed that you’re missing your badge. Did you lose it? Aren’t cops reprimanded for that?”

“Are you going to kill me?” he says, evading my question.

I look him over. “Answer me, and I’ll make it quick and painless.”

The hard dip of his Adam’s apple dispels some of his bravado. “I lost it,” he says. “Mandatory suspension disguised as vacation without pay.”

That’s how Foster’s been able to follow me around the country. There was no mention of his suspension in the news, but then, the headlines have been fixated on the worthy stories. London and the dead girls. The manhunt for a serial killer. FBI investigations. No one particularly cares for an aging, overweight detective from New Castle.

Pursuing me—the one that got away right in his own city—has cost Detective Foster his career. For an obstinate man like him, that’s a giant stressor.

Is it enough to make a cop of twenty-plus years snap and start torturing and killing?

I’m not sure, but he has been stalking London. Camped out near her building, and probably close to her home. If he believes London is my accomplice, he’s a danger to her. An unhinged cop who feels vindicated in breaking the law to get to me.

“I can’t let you go, Foster. I’ve taken too many risks lately.” I raise the blade to his chin. “You’ve proven that tonight.”

I give him a few seconds to absorb the reality of his situation. What will he do? He’s surprised me once—maybe he’s capable of more.

He lunges for the weapon.

His beefy grip on the knife results in a slash to his palm. Red spreads to the cuff of his coat. He manages to knock me off balance, taking me to the dewy earth. Spittle flies from his mouth as he grunts from above, still trying to wrangle the knife from my grasp.

“You cost me everything, you fucker.” Enraged, Foster throws a blow toward my head. He strikes my ear, and I release my grip on the weapon.

I’m able to nudge my booted foot under his ample stomach and shove him off. He lands on his back, knife in hand. I get to my feet and stand over him. “Dr. Noble is above you. Skulking around her like a prick with a hard-on reveals your incompetency.”

He wheezes in a breath. “I’m not the only one with a hard-on for the doc,” he says. His hand shoots out quicker than I predict. The razor-sharp edge of the blade slices into my shin. The pain is delayed; my adrenaline too ramped. I stomp on Foster’s wrist, pinning his hand, and extract the switchblade from his meaty digits.

“Besides,” I say as I wipe the blade clean on his collar. “You’re wrong about her. Your preoccupation with the good doctor is giving you tunnel vision. You need to cast your net wider.” Hands on knees, I get close to his face. “Unless that’s your plan. To frame London.”

Debilitating fear clouds his expression, hindering my assessment. I’m unable to get a clear read on him. Foster trembles with a combination of rage and anxiety, masking any hint of shock on his part.

“What are you talking about, you psycho?”

His response is disappointing. Since I can’t have him getting in the way any further…

“We should make this look good,” I say. “It would be too much of an embarrassment on your part if I got away too easy, don’t you think?” I plant my foot on his forearm and grab his wrist.

Confusion draws his eyebrows together, until the sickening crunch of bone snapping reverberates off the tombstones. Finally, real emotion displays on his face. I feel the crack of Foster’s radial bone beneath my boot.

A litany of foul words imbue the night as Foster moves through the stages of shock, pain, fear. And finally, rage.

“You motherfucker—” His tirade persists, spittle flying, as he draws his broken arm to his chest. Sprawled on his back, the detective resembles a flipped turtle, limbs striking the ground with no ability to right himself.

“A broken wing won’t stop you for long.” I prod beneath his waist and unclip the set of handcuffs. Then I drag Foster toward the staked headstone where I kicked up the stone. It’s not an open grave, but it will do. Besides, I can’t have the detective traumatized. We still need him.

His feet kick out at me, but he’s too preoccupied with his pain to put up much of a fight. I fasten one cuff to his chubby ankle, the other to the exposed rebar of the cheap headstone. He cries out as the steel cuff bites into his flesh.

“You should think about a diet, old man.” I pocket the handcuff keys, thinking they’d look beautiful strung around London’s neck.

After a useless attempt to work the cuff free of the rebar, Foster relents. Breathless, he glares up at me. “I don’t care what the media says, you’re a killer. Just a fucking killer like any other homicidal criminal locked up in prison.”

I squat next to him and—I give him credit—he doesn’t flinch. “Do you really think now is the time to have me come to God?” My tone is brutally serious.

Real fear flashes in his eyes. For the first time, the detective who’s looked death in the eyes every day of his career realizes that today might be his last.

I reach into the inseam of his coat and take out his phone. “You have two choices,” I say, setting the cell next to his head. “Get yourself out of the handcuffs, or call for help.”

His gaze narrows. “You’re giving me options?”

I shrug a shoulder. “Not much of an option. You can chew through your ankle rather than face the degradation of your department and every other official…not to mention the media you so loathe. But I just don’t think you have the stomach for it.”

Cradling his wounded arm, Foster glances between me and the phone. I stand. “Good luck.”

As I start off, he says, “Just tell me she’s in on it.”

My eyes close. “You just can’t leave it alone. Even for your own good.”

“I’m a detective,” he says around a grunt. “If the doc was a conspirator in your escape, I’ll figure it out.”

No, he won’t.

I turn around and collect Foster’s phone. Scrolling through the messages and recent calls, I shake my head. “You haven’t contacted anyone since yesterday.” I push the phone into my pocket. “That’s unfortunate. No one knows where you are, and you’re the only one who can place me inside London’s office building. You’re the only one who can warn her.”

Through the haze of pain, it takes a moment for him to decipher my meaning. “What do you want with her?”

I untuck the Glock from my pants. “You wasted my mercy. I’m not an endless well of sympathy.” I release the magazine and, one by one, spit the bullets to the ground with a flick of my thumb.

“What are you doing?” Foster asks.

I insert the empty mag and pull the slide back. Tilting the gun toward Foster, I show him the chamber. “Pick a bullet,” I say.

Still gripping his broken arm to his chest, Foster glances at the bronze bullets splayed around his head, refusing to play the game.

“Stubborn as ever,” I mutter, and select one myself. I hold it up, then chamber the round and drop the slide. The resounding click makes Foster squeeze his eyes closed.

“Ever play Russian Roulette, Foster?”

His eyes snap open. “You’re crazy. You can’t play Roulette with a fucking Glock—”

“Sure you can.” I cock the gun and press the muzzle to his temple. “Rules are real simple. Answer the question honestly, and I don’t shoot you.”

He tries to squirm away and releases a strangled cry as the cuff jerks his leg back.

I reposition the gun to his head. “Done?” He sends me a lethal glare but doesn’t move this time.

“What the fuck do you want to know?” he grits out through clenched teeth.

“Have you ever harmed an animal?” I ask.

“The fuck—?”

“Honesty, Foster. It’s very important right now. I’ll know if you’re lying.”

He blows out a harsh breath, pain mounting despite his adrenaline. “No. Never.”

I tilt my head, studying him. Deciding he’s telling the truth, I pull back the gun and yank the slide open, popping out the bullet. “One down,” I say, and toss the bullet over my shoulder.

Foster’s head smacks the ground as he relaxes, breathing hard. “Is this some sick psych evaluation?”

“Something like that.” I load another round into the chamber and cock the gun. “Thirteen bullets to go. Bet you wish you didn’t load a full mag today.”

“Christ.”

“Have you ever fired your gun on the job?”

Foster doesn’t blink. “No.”

We go on like this, working our way through bullets, him giving me the answers I want to know. Until we’re down to the final round.

At this point, Foster has stopped sweating. He’s slipping into shock. I still haven’t gotten the answer I need, however. Whether or not it’s his signature on the vics.

I load the bullet.

“It’s not Russian Roulette unless you point the damn thing at yourself once in a while,” he says between wheezes. His eyes fluttered closed.

I nudge his head with the barrel, rousing him. “Fair enough. Now pay attention.” I stretch his arm out and he bites off a scream. I place the Glock in his shaky hand, helping him secure his finger to the trigger. “Don’t break the rules.”

His gaze holds me in a disbelieving stare. He blinks rapidly, trying to clear the sting of dried sweat from his eyes, then maneuvers himself onto his elbow and aims at my head. I lower myself to make it easier for him. I put my forehead right up to the muzzle.

Unsteady, he can barely keep the gun raised. I give Foster credit, though, his sheer stubborn determination won’t let him drop that gun.

“Ask,” I say.

The cool steel trembles against my forehead. Foster smiles. “Fuck you.” His finger twitches, he pulls the trigger, and the slide jams home with a resounding click. Foster’s eyes widen. He tries to pull the trigger again, and I pry the gun away.

I show him the bullet in my hand. “No one ever passes their test,” I say as I chamber the bullet, this time without first dropping it into my hand. “Sorry. That’s not right. London passed hers.”

“Is that why you left her alive?”

I check the gun, making sure it’s ready, and get to my feet. “You’re the detective,” I say, pointing the weapon at him. “Figure it out.”

“Wait!” Foster holds up his hand, as if he’ll stop the bullet. “You can’t do this…”

I really can. “I don’t like guns. Unimaginative. But our game has inspired me.” I slip my finger around the trigger and take aim.

The passing cars are too far away to hear the gunshot.