London

When the call comes, I’m in the middle of a therapy session with a one of my longtime patients.

“And how does that make you feel about your boss?” I ask Cynthia, then try not to glance at my phone for the time.

“Well…” she begins, her hands already wringing in her lap.

My thoughts wander as soon as she slips into a monotonous account of her female boss and their issues. At least she’s one of my easy patients. Cynthia can drone on for an hour with little input from me.

I thought I could transition into full-time general psychology easily enough, but my patients are always dealing with their “feelings”. So many fucking feelings. Grayson wasn’t wrong when he said I channeled my sickness through my patients, but it’s more than that, why I chose to work with killers.

Psychopaths only imitate emotions.

Listening to patients talk and talk and talk—endless, mindless, self-involved chatter about feelings and their problems—most of them melodramatic—makes me ill. I get home in the evenings and heave. Get sick before I barely cross the threshold, to purge it from my system.

I’m not sure how much longer I can employ the charade.

There has been another murder, presumably by the copycat killer, although certain, vital details of the murder have been omitted, making it difficult to know for sure. And I admit, in the back of my thoughts, there’s a question of whether the kill was Grayson’s…

I fail and look down at my phone, and my heart knocks. A missed call from Agent Nelson with a follow up text: I have information on your sister.

The world implodes.

Nothing will be the same after this. It’s a moment of vibrant awareness.

We get stuck—a swirling vortex of the same thoughts, centered on the same routine. A well-worn track of comfort. We’re bored, but too busy to notice the boredom slowly killing us.

Until something inspiring interrupts our course, and we skip the rails onto a new track.

Inspiration is the food of life.

We’re so hungry for it, so ravenous…that once we realize we’re starving, and that first taste hits our tongue, we’re capable of genius.

A song, a movie, a novel—a single phrase or moment—we recognize it in an instant. We’re motionless in the dark, then we’re thrust into the light. Clear and focused.

Grayson was my fresh taste. He’s my interruption. I was starving for his promise of genius, and that genius shattered my world to bring me a sister I never knew existed before now.

“Cynthia,” I interrupt. “I’m sorry, but I just received a text. It’s an emergency. We need to reschedule.”

She’s jolted for a second before she graciously recovers. “Of course, Dr. Noble. I understand.”

I usher her from my office with another apology, then shut and lock the door. I let the solid brace of the door support me as I collect myself. Then I make the call.

Agent Nelson answers on the second ring. “You got my message.”

“Yes.”

Time seems to suspend as I wait to hear the news.

Then: “Mia Prescott.”

I close my eyes, blocking all other distractions so I can focus on his voice.

“Forensics places her remains between sixteen- and eighteen-years-old. The state of decomposition suggests she died somewhere within twenty years ago. But all this you knew.”

I did. I recovered enough of my memory to believe I had a sister. The fact that she’s real…that she—that we—have a name, makes it a certainty.

“I have a team concentrating on the victims’ families,” Nelson continues. “I’ve pulled together a couple of agents to focus primarily on Mia.”

I appreciate that he uses her name. “Thank you. Do you know anything yet?”

He clears his throat. “A quick search on the name pulled up a report. But—”

“Nelson, please,” I say. “You know that I’m able to handle it, and I have similar access to uncover this information…”

“I know,” he says. “I wanted to do this in person, but I respect your quest for answers. Okay. Mia Prescott was reported deceased with the discovery of Jacqueline and Phillip Prescott. Their bodies washed ashore the Ohio River just outside Cincinnati. It was assumed their two children, Mia and Lydia, had also drowned, but their bodies were never discovered.”

The name detonates on impact.

Lydia.

“Jacqueline’s sister persisted with the search for the children until she fell ill with ovarian cancer and died five years after her sister.”

I had an aunt.

“London,” he breathes my name. “Why don’t we meet soon. I can give you a copy of the reports. We shouldn’t have to do this over the phone.”

“All right,” I answer simply.

“Okay. Good. Give me a couple of hours.”

I end the call, slipping the phone into my jacket pocket.

London Noble.

Lydia Prescott.

Two worlds collide, and suddenly, every certainty I ever knew feels unstable. As if the cover sheet of my existence has been yanked away, and I’m not sure what awaits the unveiling.

I walk to my desk. Stand over it, my gaze lingering on papers and folders and coffee cups. I swipe my arms across the desktop. Contents crash to the floor with a satisfying clatter.

A knock sounds at the door. “London? Is everything okay?”

Bracing my palms against the desk’s edge, I ground myself. “Everything’s fine, Lacy.”

A hesitant moment of silence, then her footsteps retreat.

I close my eyes. I’ve been asking Agent Nelson for updates for weeks, with no follow up on his end. Then, a second murder is announced in Rockland—just hours away—and answers materialize.

Answers that will take me to Hollows and away from here.

How convenient.

It’s possible Nelson and the FBI feel I’m in danger. Or they think I’m a complication to the manhunt. Either way, I should stay here—to procure the trap Grayson and I set for the copycat. That is, if the imitator is in fact in Maine.

I glance at the Dali hanging on the office wall. Beneath the piece of art is hours of extensive research and personal thoughts and findings. All my research into Grayson. I’ve been keeping a diary of sorts; insight into the man as well as the killer.

My notes serve a larger purpose, but the discernment it’s given me has also caused a thread of doubt. Even without a counterpart, Grayson should be evolving. With his IQ and the years he’s been an active killer, his methodology should be progressing.

Not devolving.

I hate doubt. I try to push it away, but I can’t help thinking I’m an upset to his pattern. What’s more, I’m treading in unknown waters myself. We’re embarking into uncharted territory, and I have to continue to question the process or I could sink.

One of us has to remain in control.

I hit the intercom and tell Lacy to book my flight to Mississippi.