London

The entrance to the hospital is teeming with reporters and news crews. Agent Nelson swears and steers his SUV toward the backside of the building.

“I still say you shouldn’t be here,” he says.

When the announcement aired that Detective Foster was hospitalized early this morning, Nelson and a team of agents showed up at my apartment shortly afterward.

Foster gave a brief statement to the press that cited Grayson Sullivan as his attacker. Authorities are still awaiting DNA analysis from his person to confirm this, but it’s already become an accepted truth by the media. And when Foster publicly stated that he spotted Grayson inside my building, chaos ensued. The alarms went off across the city, the nationwide manhunt now zeroing in on Bangor.

A protective detail was assigned to me immediately. I underwent questioning from the FBI, touting repeatedly that I had not had any interaction with the escaped convict. Once I was cleared, I had to contact my lawyer to prevent the FBI from searching my office floor. Allen Young won’t prevail—all he can do is postpone the search. Until the search warrant is presented, he’s working to get my patient files protected.

I had to persistently rant to leave my own home in order to visit Foster in the hospital.

I haven’t yet processed what this means, or if it’s a part of Grayson’s overall scheme.

I’ll handle Foster.

Grayson’s words before he left me, but this level of impulsiveness is extremely out of character for him. I cannot believe that, after last night, Grayson intended for this madness to happen. Rather, we allowed Foster to interfere, and this is the fallout from our colossal neglect.

Foster has been a thorn in my side since before the trial. And now his amateur detecting and brash, tactless behavior for the media has turned my life into a circus once again.

Agent Nelson makes a call to another agent already inside the ER unit, and then swivels to address me. “Ten minutes. Then I have to get you out of here.”

Stunned, I stare back at him. “Am I a suspect?”

His features crease in confusion. “No,” he says hesitantly.

“Am I under arrest?” I press.

“Of course not. London—”

“Then I’m a free citizen, agent. And while I appreciate everything the FBI has done to protect me, quite frankly, I’m tired of taking orders. I’m going to speak to Foster now.”

Nelson drives a hand through his hair, releasing a terse breath. “I haven’t protected you.” He glances away, and I open my mouth to reassure him, but he continues. “I was wrong to remove your detail. Foster is a disgrace, but he was there when I wasn’t. You could’ve been harmed…or worse. Sullivan was inside your building while you were there.” He looks at me then. “It frightens me…what his motive was. What could’ve happened.”

I hold his gaze, stricken at how believable his guilt appears. “If Sullivan wanted me dead, then he would’ve killed me before.”

His stare intensifies. “There are things worse than death.”

The air of the SUV thickens, the silence stretching between us. Nelson believes, as he has since he first discovered me at the crime scene, that Grayson’s unhealthy obsession with his psychologist is what’s kept me alive, and also puts me in the greatest danger.

Yes. There are things worse than death. Grayson tortured me and left me alive. To Nelson, that has been the most confounding part of all.

This time, we leave that argument unstated, and I clasp the door handle. “Dangerous serial offenders are my specialty, Agent Nelson.” I open the door. “Thank you for your efforts, but I can look after myself from now on.”

I hop out of the SUV and shut the door before he can reiterate his feelings. Right now, I’m not able to deal with my level of anxiousness over the search of my office and the possibility that he has been masquerading as the serial killer he’s hunting.

Both Foster and Nelson have been in my presence for months, and I didn’t suspect either of them. Doubt in my abilities festers deeply—but I have to regain the upper hand.

I have to be Dr. London Noble.

I rush toward the side entrance of the hospital, dodging a couple stray reporters. I’m too volatile; I can’t face the media. The automatic doors whoosh open, and the distinct antiseptic scent of the hospital overpowers me as the cool air fans my face. The sterile chill prickles my skin as I make my way to reception.

I have no doubt that I’ll have to throw my clout around to get visiting rights. I’m working myself up for the battle when the receptionist looks directly at me, her bright green eyes widening.

“I’m Dr. London Noble and—”

“Dr. Noble?” she repeats.

“Yes?” I say, cautiously.

She turns to her monitor and types. “You’re on Marshall Foster’s approved visitor’s list.” She looks up at me. “Actually, you’re the only name listed.”

Surprise gathers my features tight. “Is he receiving visitors?”

“He is,” she says, clicking a button on her keyboard. The door to my right buzzes open. “Turn left and he’s the second room on the right.”

“Thank you.”

Before I enter the ER wing, I notice Agent Nelson coming in. There’s a brief moment where we lock eyes, then I go through the door.

I know the fact that Grayson used me to escape custody in a hospital is at the top of his thoughts. I pass a number of agents in the hallway, their gazes trained on me. Maybe Nelson’s protective rant was a ruse. Maybe he’s counting on Grayson making an appearance.

Maybe I’m paranoid. Or even hopeful.

I find Foster’s room and knock once before entering.

His casted arm is in a sling, and purple colors beneath his worn eyes. I stop counting the number of contusions as I draw closer. His bloodshot gaze focuses on me.

“He did this to you.” It’s not a question, but for some reason, I need confirmation.

Foster grunts his affirmation. He then nods to the plastic cup with a straw on the tray next to the gurney.

I roll my eyes and grab the water. “I’m not your nurse.” But I let him take a couple of sips before I place the cup back on the tray. “What were you doing stalking my building? Stalking me?”

Foster clears his throat. “I knew he’d come back for you. It was just a matter of time.”

I fist my hands on my hips. “Well, you certainly proved it. To the whole world. Have you read the latest press release?”

“I don’t care what those assholes say.”

I dig out my phone and open a webpage. “Small Town Cop Takes on Serial Killer and Lives.” The headline reads like a war hero piece, but the article itself is a mockery of Foster. A Barney Fife type representation of his solo efforts to pursue one of the most dangerous criminals outside the law.

“Detective Marshall Foster of the New Castle Police Department was discovered early this morning near an unmarked grave inside a cemetery off highway ninety-five,” I read aloud. Unmarked grave—sounds like Grayson already. “The Delaware detective had been relieved of his weapon and cellphone, his arm broken and suffering multiple injuries. He was found handcuffed to the rebar of a headstone, suffering shock by the time officials were notified and arrived at the scene. Foster was dehydrated and delirious, ranting about the Angel of Maine and his next victim.”

I look up from my phone. “What next victim?”

His weathered gaze spears me. “You.”

I pocket my phone, cross my arms. I’m unsure if his declaration is out of concern, or a threat. The article also stated that Foster had been suspended, operating on his own as he tracked Grayson across the country. He suffered a major stressor and has no family ties to ground him. If he was my patient, I’d declare him delusional, unhinged from reality.

A temporary break in his psyche could make him capable of more than just stalking—he could be dangerous. To himself and others. Is it a leap to say that a man who has devoted majority of his life to upholding the law suddenly—like a switch—begins killing?

Maybe I’m biased, but from a personal standpoint, I’ve discovered that the very people put in charge to honor the law and protect us are the ones we should fear the most.

“You shouldn’t worry about me,” I say, offering him another sip from the cup. “I’m well protected, detective.”

He shakes his head at my offer. “You weren’t last night, London. When Sullivan was inside your building. He didn’t approach you, which leads me to believe that whatever he’s up to is something sinister.”

I set the cup down. Foster has never addressed me so informally. We’re not on a first name basis. I study him, looking for any sign of Machiavellian tactics. The detective is far more cunning than what he demonstrates publicly, but he’s not shrewd enough to be a master manipulator.

And he’s serious.

Whatever happened between Grayson and Foster has the detective believing in my innocence.

“I would think that you’d be shouting the loudest that I was in cohorts with Grayson. Having some clandestine reunion with him. Plotting…” I wave my hand aimlessly. “Everyone’s demise.”

He scoffs. “That’s just a tactic. To get you riled in hopes you’ll spill something that you hadn’t to the Feds.”

I nod slowly. Right. Grayson must have riled him up pretty good last night. I inspect his cast. “How did you break your arm?”

“He broke it.” His unrestricted hand clenches into a fist. “I don’t know why Sullivan was there, but I knew he would be. He’s not finished with you yet. You’re in danger. You need to leave, London. Get away until he’s caught or dead.”

I quirk an eyebrow. “How heavy is your pain meds?”

“I’m serious,” he says with a huff. “He tried to kill me.”

“If Grayson wanted you dead, Foster, you’d be dead.” I lean in close to his ear. “Which means he still has a purpose for you, too.”

As I pull away, he watches me closely.

“I appreciate your concern,” I say, “but you should be more concerned for yourself. You’re not safe from him in a hospital, as you well know. You’re not safe anywhere.”

The truth of my statement registers in his swollen eyes. “You’re right. He didn’t kill me. He could’ve, but he left me alive. Fired my own gun at me and missed.”

I stay quiet, waiting for him to make the connection to whatever he’s sorting out.

“The things he said…that he asked me…” He shakes his head and winces. “It was like he’s looking for something in particular. And when he didn’t find it, he just…left.”

Still, I say nothing. But Foster’s statement reveals more than he could possibly know.

“You’ve gotten inside his demented head,” he says to me. “Explain it to me.”

I raise my eyebrows, shake my head. “His disorder is complicated. There are many different reasons for what he did, possible theories…and I can’t know for sure unless I evaluate him now.”

Foster’s gaze narrows. “Why are you here?”

“To ask you not to speak to the press again.” And to see for myself if by looking into Foster’s eyes, I will recognize a killer.

I sigh, exasperated. On all accounts. “The media doesn’t report the truth, Foster,” I say. “They’ll spin whatever you give them into the worst tale for the both of us.” I lay my hand on his arm, then I reach into my purse and pull out a card. I tuck it into his cast. “Here’s my lawyer’s direct line. I’ve made him aware of the situation. Please call him before you make anymore speeches to the press.”

I turn to go, and he says, “Allen Young? Are you serious?”

“You recall how fierce he was. That’s exactly why I retained his services. You’re welcome.”

He frowns. “Thanks, doc. Try to stay out of trouble.”

I let a slight smile break through before I leave the ER room.

Agent Nelson is waiting in the hall.

“Eavesdropping?” I say as I pass him.

He catches up to me easily with his long strides. “Doing my job doesn’t make me the bad guy.”

I give him a sideways glance, but say nothing.

“Believe it or not,” he says, “I agree with Foster. It’s not safe for you to stay in Bangor.”

My immediate, reflexive response is to continue arguing my points with the agent. But I take a moment to consider my options. “Maybe Foster is finally right about something. I’ll leave by this afternoon.” I sign out at reception, then head toward the double doors.

Agent Nelson stops me before I cross over into the media craze. “Let me secure a place for you.”

I put distance between us. “No, thank you. Please. I don’t want to go to some FBI safe house.” I swipe my bangs from my face. “I have a place to stay. A friend’s. I’ll be safe there.”

“Can I have this friend’s information?”

“You’re the FBI,” I say as I walk through the parting doors. “I have no doubt you’ll figure it out before the end of the day.”

Actually, I’m counting on it.