London

By the time my plane is on its descent toward Bangor, exhaustion claims every muscle in my body. A quick layover in DC allowed Sadie and I to make the exchange of documents. She returned my phone with a hesitant scowl, claiming the multitude of notifications forced her to shut it down, worried “this Special Agent Nelson character” would track me down only to find her. Sadie isn’t fond of the FBI, to say the least.

Once I was seated on the plane, I turned my cell on, then thought of switching it right back off when the flood of messages and voicemails arrived. Instead, I put it on mute and settled in for the flight home.

My phone vibrates in my pocket. I sigh out a breath, deciding I won’t start returning calls until I land. When a notification buzzes my phone immediately afterward, resistance becomes pointless. I ignore the “no cellphone” sign above and swipe open my text messages.

The air leaves the cabin.

My heart stops.

No.

Grayson has been apprehended.

I drag in a breath, forcing my lungs to expand past the constriction as I read the text from Allen Young again, trying to discern a different meaning. My hands shake as I type a message to him, then I stop.

I open my browser and search Grayson’s name, my head aching from the pressure. I tap open the first article, and the world tilts.

The Angel of Maine Caught.

The wheels touch down, and the motion rocks through me with a jolting sickness. I only have hours before he’s transported to Cotsworth Correctional Facility.

---

I ignore the calls and messages from Agent Nelson on my way to my apartment, where I hurriedly shower and change into clothes more becoming of Dr. Noble. Sliding into the suit is like sliding back into my own skin, comforting.

A brief thought of Lydia flutters up—what my other, better half would do in this circumstance—but I’m too far beyond her now to feed that insecurity. I tamp it down as easily as I call for a cab, decision made.

I can’t flounder one step.

As the taxi coasts toward my building, I pocket my phone with a curse. I’ve covered every news station report and article, looking for something, anything to contradict Grayson’s arrest, and it’s not until the cab pulls to a stop that reality fully sinks in.

The car is swarmed as a flood of reporters rush the vehicle.

“Pull around to the back,” I instruct the driver. “You can wait for me there.”

He blares the horn, forcing camera crews and bystanders to move. “You sure you want to get out here?” he asks as he stops near the back entrance. “I’m not sure I can wait here…”

There’s a number of people here, too, but it’s not as thronged. “You can wait.” I leave my purse in the backseat to keep the taxi waiting, then I jet out of the car toward the door, trying to shroud my face. Cameras flash, and a recorder is thrust in my face.

“Dr. Noble, how do you feel about the arrest of Grayson Sullivan?”

“Do you fear he’ll escape again?”

“Are you scared he’ll come after you?”

Christ. I wave off the questions and make it into the building, pulling the door closed behind me. Crime-scene tape is layered over the elevator. Irate, I tear it away from the panel. In my mad dash to get here, I hadn’t bothered to check if the building had been reopened.

Now that Grayson is caught…

I shut my eyes. Center myself. Then, with renewed purpose, I hit the elevator button.

Grayson has been incarcerated. This is a fact. For officials, whatever investigation my practice or I were under is probably of no more concern. At least for now.

My floor is uncannily quiet when I step out. I curse when I find my office door already unlocked. “They could’ve at least locked back up.”

I push the door open. What’s left of my patience ignites a very small fuse.

Agent Nelson is seated at my desk, flipping through my planner. He doesn’t look up, just continues to intrude on my privacy. “I thought you might go to him first.” He pencils something into my planner. “But then I figured this is your haven. Where you keep your secrets.”

Against my will, my gaze slides to the filing cabinet.

“You would want to check on the status of your office first,” he continues, and looks up. “Make sure nothing is out of place.”

I smooth the lines of my face, clearing my features of all emotion. It’s difficult to maintain an unaffected countenance when I glimpse the wall behind Nelson—my research on Grayson exposed. The Dali discarded to the floor.

“I do plan to see Grayson,” I say, moving into my office. “For an interview. Unlike some professionals, I can set my personal feelings aside in order to do my job. His state of mind right now could give us insight—”

Nelson stands abruptly. “You can stop lying to me now.”

I square my shoulders. “I don’t owe you anything. No explanations. And I’m quite certain that the search warrant is now expired, so I’m politely asking you to leave my office, agent.”

He pushes my chair back and turns toward the wall, trails a finger over the pages on the corkboard. “I feel like a fool. Here I was, vehemently declaring your innocence to my superiors, and it wasn’t Sullivan who had the obsession—it was you. Fixated on your own patient.” He looks at me then. “Are you in love with him?”

This isn’t the probing question of a curious FBI agent. Nelson is dropping the guise. His tone seethes with offense. His suit is wrinkled, as if he hasn’t slept in days. He’s endured some kind of setback during Grayson’s arrest.

“Frankly,” I say, “that’s none of your business. How I conduct my sessions and therapeutic techniques with my patients is none of the FBI’s concern.”

He moves around the desk, coming toward me. “I should’ve put it together with the inconclusive rape exam. What is it about the bad boy that turns smart women into whores?”

I inch toward the door. “You need to leave. Now. You need sleep, agent.”

He scrubs a hand down his face. “No. I don’t think that’s what I need. I need what you gave Grayson. You’re his muse. His creative genius is influenced by you.”

I grip the door handle, and he halts his pursuit. “With Grayson behind bars, who will take the fall, Nelson? Have you thought this through?”

The farce is over. Nelson never intended for Grayson to be captured alive—that’s too much of a risk. An intelligent criminal who’s been framed for murders he didn’t commit could do serious damage to the guilty party, even from prison.

And I’m Grayson’s lover. The proof of my affection is written all over my investigation into him. The hours, days, weeks I devoted to the patient who abducted and tortured me…that’s just not natural. I should’ve been working harder to ensure Grayson’s capture, not investing time into setting him free. That’s what Nelson sees. The fruits of my labor.

Which means I know about the copycat killings.

I’m as much of a threat to him as Grayson.

“Obsessed fan who finishes what was started,” he says, waving a hand thoughtlessly. “Or maybe you just couldn’t handle it. The man you love taken away again. The judgment from not only your patients, but also your colleagues. Your career in ruins. Suicide rates are up this season.”

I exhale a lengthy breath, thinking how to buy time. “Detective Foster would’ve been more original. Secretly, I was rooting for it to be him. You’re an insult to Grayson’s methods.”

He chuckles, but the sound is off, disembodied. “Foster is an embarrassment to law enforcement. He doesn’t have the first clue.”

I crane an eyebrow. “He shadowed you, according to the reports. Followed you right to the scene of the crime. I bet you’ve been plagued by that—going over it and over it. Thinking if Foster had just been ten minutes earlier…” I trail off, a taunt in my voice. “You shouldn’t underestimate people. The number one reason why serial killers get caught is because they start to believe they’re unstoppable. They make careless mistakes.”

Something in his gaze dims, unseeing. He’s staring through me. Gaining an ounce of leverage, I ease away from the door and toward the filing cabinet. I’m not leaving here without what I came for.

Nelson snaps out of his daze, and I stop all movement. “Who slit the rapist’s throat?” he suddenly asks.

I stay still. A fixed object, unthreatening. “You’re not making sense, Nelson. We can go to my therapy room. I have techniques that can help you—”

“Who slit his fucking throat, London?” He advances on me. “You didn’t think that, after all my study and work that I’ve put into this case, I wouldn’t recognize the deviancy in signature?”

He’s so close to me now. I can feel his body heat. Smell his aftershave. See every wrinkle in his standard, black suit. I look up into his wild eyes. “I did,” I admit. “I placed my hand over Grayson’s and, even though we both dragged the blade across his neck, it was my choice.”

His nostrils flare. With purposeful movement, he takes hold of my hand and turns it over, exposing the tattooed key I no longer conceal. “A replica of the murder weapon. Your trophy. You killed Malcolm Noble.”

“Prove it.”

In one quick flash, Nelson strikes my face.

I slam into the door from the force of his backhand. I cover my cheek, vision blurring. The pain hasn’t seeped past my shock yet. I watch him with guarded eyes as he hovers near, breathing hard.

“I don’t have to prove it,” he says, gripping my upper arm and hauling me across the room. He swipes an arm across my desktop. Objects crash to the floor. Then he’s pushing me down against the surface. “I just have to get rid of the loose end.”

I struggle against his hold and work my way onto my back. Using my feet, I kick at him. “There are witnesses,” I say around a grunt as I strike out. “All those people down there…”

My mention of witnesses only fazes him for a second, then he pushes himself between my legs, ending my fight. His hands close around my throat. “Scream,” he dares through clenched teeth. “You’ll suffer a broken neck from a fall down the elevator shaft. No one will question me. I’m the fucking law.”

His fingers tighten, cutting off my oxygen. I claw his hands, gasping for air. “Then why not just do it now,” I manage. His hold loosens, gaze narrowed. “You can’t. The same way you couldn’t allow a trap to take your victims’ lives. You had to be the one—you had to feel life drained from them with your own hands…”

Grayson’s words channeled through me, but they’re true. However this sadistic game started for Nelson, he’s embraced it fully now. He’s become the monster he hunts. With Grayson locked away, the killings have to end.

And Nelson can’t accept that.

His grip around my neck strengthens, tears blur my eyes. Fire snakes through my lungs and curls around my throat. He’s shaking, muscles strained. Spittle leaks from his mouth as he squeezes the life from my body.

I’m going to die.

“You’ll always be in his shadow,” I wheeze out, but he hears me.

Apprehension glints in his crazed eyes. For the briefest second, air finds my lungs, and I grovel for more. I push the panic down and rake my nails across his face. He releases an enraged growl, then one of his hands wrapping my neck is gone. I clutch the air in my lungs like a desperate animal fighting for survival.

“Guess I need to taste the muse for myself, then,” he grits out. He works his belt buckle open, and another paralyzing burst of panic seizes my body.

Hand clamped hard to my throat, he wrestles his pants open, and I come alive with fight. I flail and scream, my voice nearly lost, a searing whisper wrenched free. It’s not enough. Nelson manhandles me easily, bunching up my skirt and ripping my underwear down my thighs.

He positions himself between my legs, and I can’t make sense of this. In spite of the panic, the fear…logic finds a way in. Nelson is going off script. This doesn’t fit—the killer he’s become in Grayson’s wake.

How many perpetrators has Nelson emulated? How many personas does he have trapped in his psyche? He’s coming undone.

Just one second. That’s all I need.

I swipe my hands along the surface of the desk, anger overcoming desperation. This man will not victimize me. I grasp onto something solid and aim for his neck.

He cries out as my letter opener drives into his shoulder.

A miss, but it’s enough. His hand falls away from my throat, and I pull the silver object out and drive my hand down, making contact with his leg.

“Fuck!”

I feel the warm gush of blood cover my hand and, trembling, I roll over. I take half a second to drag an unobstructed breath into my lungs, then I bound off the desk. My legs unsteady, I stagger before finding my footing. Nelson clutches the wound on his thigh, red seeping through his fingers.

Not good enough. I need him immobile.

Every muscle and bone in my body hitched with pain, I brace a hand to the desk and kick. I nail him in the balls. He falls to his knees. Then I attack again, hitting him directly in the same spot, taking him to the ground.

He’s spewing venomous curses at me—and I use his angered voice to gauge his presence as I drop before the filing cabinet. I get the key ring out of my pocket. The keys clang in my trembling hands, but I manage to insert the right one and yank the bottom drawer open. I reach underneath and grasp the object taped to the underside of the drawer above.

I close my eyes, lungs struggling to hold in air, as I grip the rusted key in my palm.

I take one last look at Nelson on the floor of my office, then I half crawl, half run toward the elevator. Everything is surreal. Detached from reality. Somehow I calm my nerves enough to fix my hair, pulling it loose from the hair clamp to cover my neck. I straighten my blouse and suit. Wiping any makeup smudges from my face, I ready myself to face the crowd.

The taxi is still waiting for me outside the back entrance. It seems so wrong—how much time has passed? I feel as if it’s been hours that I fought Nelson off, but when I get inside the cab and dig my phone from my purse, it’s only been minutes.

The driver glances at me in the rearview mirror. “Everything all right?”

No. Nothing is all right.

“Please take me directly to the Rockland Police Department.”

His worried gaze shifts to the road ahead, and the car bounds forward. I relax against the seat, my adrenaline tapering off, leaving me drained.

I’m still clutching the key in my hand, the teeth biting into my palm.

I close my eyes. Hear Nelson asking me what happened to the key…the murder weapon. He was right; my practice has always been my haven. My most salacious secrets kept there, safe. Hidden.

It can’t be anymore. Grayson is my haven now. My secrets reside within us.

I feel along my suit pocket, tracing the outline of a USB drive. I slipped it into my pocket in the elevator, not thinking about it in the moment, unnerved from the confrontation. The drive was taped next to the key. Only one person could’ve placed it there.

During the ride, I continue to take deep breaths, calming myself further. I gather my thoughts in preparation.

I’ve been to the jailhouse before, to visit a patient who’d been locked up for public drunkenness. I stood on the other side of the bars, scared to get too near them, thinking how much they reminded me of the cell in my father’s basement. I recognized the brand name on the cell door lock—the same name that was on the door to my father’s basement cage.

Coincidence or fate?

With shaky hands, I open the locket I brought from home and slip the key inside, then drape the chain over my head. I find a thin scarf in my purse and layer it over the chain and the purpling bruises along my neck.

Then I scrape a fingernail file beneath my nails and place the skin and blood inside my compact. I make the call.

“Young,” I say when he answers. “Get me access to Grayson.”

He talks on about procedure and regulation and strict enforcement…and I hear none of it. “Make it happen,” I demand and hang up.

I make one last call before we’re parked in front of the building where Grayson is being kept under heavy guard. I pay my fair and leave the safe confines of the cab, phone pressed to my ear.

I talk hurriedly, keeping the communication short.

Agent Nelson has become more than a complication. He’s become a barrier. He’s unpredictable. And that frightens me more than the walls between Grayson and me now.

I turn off my phone and adjust my suit, situating myself. If it was just a matter of killing the FBI agent, then it would be less problematic. A single, large dose of succinylcholine, and he’d be one less obstacle to hurdle. But we placed Nelson in a position of power for a reason—and it’s too late to change the game.

I lift my chin as I steadily walk toward the jailhouse, arming myself with layers of confidence. Dr. London Noble has the status and authority to overturn any official. I believed this before; I have to believe it now.

Above reproach.

Agent Nelson isn’t the only one with the law on his side.

You’re his muse.

Wrong again.

From the moment I placed my hand in Grayson’s on that roof, everything has been my choice. I wondered when it was that the dynamic between us was established…and now I know. It was then. Right then.

Amid our Folie à deux—our madness shared by two—I am the dominant.

It has always been me.