London

Hawthorne Cemetery sits on a pocket of rolling hills in my family’s hometown. Fall leaves, fading from lively green to hues of red and orange, dust the corner of the graveyard, covering mounds of dry grass.

I’ve now visited twice. Once to see where my parents lay in rest, and today to see my sister, Mia, in her final resting place next to them.

Jacqueline and Phillip Prescott—my biological parents—share one large alabaster headstone, so I had Mia’s designed in the same marble finish, and purchased the plot next to theirs.

I walk toward the headstones with my wool coat pulled closed, my dark hair whipping my cheeks in the unforgiving Cincinnati wind. I stop at the foot of their graves.

The branches rustle in the breeze above, stirring the only sound in the otherwise silent cemetery. I’m alone, and I realize with a startling truth that, when my time comes, there will be no place for me.

Just as well. I don’t really belong here, with them, after all.

My life awaits me back in San Francisco, where Grayson is pursuing our newest patient, getting to know our soon-to-be victim. David Lyman has a preference for young girls. He sought out my services because his daughter is about to turn thirteen. He didn’t admit as much to me during our introductory session, but Grayson knows where to look to uncover the truth.

I plan to exercise David’s demons, making sure that he ends his life before he has the chance to get at his daughter.

Then, Grayson and I will move to another country for a time. Our plan is to keep relocating. Leaving behind no more than one victim in each place.

My death… Well, hopefully that’s further off.

I walk toward the middle of the plots and place a single sprig of lilac on my mother’s grave, then white roses on my father’s and Mia’s. I learned that my mother loved lilacs; it was her favorite flower. My first home—the one I can’t recall—still has lilacs planted below the windows.

Some things are inherent in us. Some memories buried so deep, our subconscious mind clinging to them, even when tragedy tries to strip us of our identities a trace remains.

I’m making peace with Lydia.

A noise to my left—the snap of a twig.

I whirl around to locate the sound and spot a squirrel. My held breath releases in a whoosh, fogging the air. I turn to leave, and something catches my notice between the trees. A hulking figure…

I look again, but other than the squirrel, there’s nothing there. Just the shadow of a pine cast over the graves.

It’s not the first time I’ve thought I’ve seen Foster nearby. Every once in a while my paranoia creeps up, usually when it’s too quiet, too still. Like now. I brush the eerie sensation off and start toward the pebbled pathway.

I met with Foster right before I moved away from Maine. He checks in on me every now and again, just to make sure I’m all right, as we still remain friends in a sense.

He asked me about the knife.

Although he corroborated my account in the garage, he wasn’t—technically—present during the final act. For that one minute while he struggled to climb the shipping container, when Grayson and Nelson went over the edge, Foster didn’t have sight of us.

During our conversation, I played confused, but I knew what he wanted to know: How did Grayson’s switchblade end up at the bottom of the container of acid? It was gnarled by the time forensics pulled if free, but it could still be identified. Unlike flesh and bone, steel is rather resistant to sulfuric acid.

I told Foster that it’s possible Grayson stabbed Nelson before they went over. Everything happened so quickly…

He accepted my answer with a nod. But I could still see a trace of doubt in his eyes; that lingering need he has as a lifelong detective to close out every angle of the case.

Should Foster prove to be a problem, we’ll manage him. Maybe Foster even realizes the danger in this…or maybe it’s nothing at all. My mind playing tricks on me.

Pebbles crunch beneath my heels as I progress along the path, and then I feel it—his eyes on me. His presence near.

An arm wraps around my waist, drawing me to him.

“You have got to stop that,” I say to Grayson as I sink against his chest.

“You have got to be more aware of your surroundings,” he retorts. Then his lips find my neck, chasing away the chill and sending a shiver over my skin at the same time.

“Do you think…?” I hedge.

“No,” he answers simply. “We’re safe, London. We’re free.”

I breathe a little easier, accepting this. In another few months we’ll be leaving the country, and then I can finally relax, too far away for my demons to follow.

As we leave the cemetery, I study Grayson’s profile. Thinking about how, if I was truly safe, he wouldn’t be here. Then I shake the thought from my head and take his hand in mine.

Grayson says I’m his angel, but it’s he who watches over me. My dark protector.

Not all demons are born to the dark. And not all angels seek the light. Sometimes our circumstance demands a fusion of both. There is no good and evil. Only the time spent between both heaven and hell, where we find our peace.

And love.

Even the vilest of monsters deserve to be loved.

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