Grayson

What beats a perfect death?

Faking a perfect death.

It’s not an easy feat. It takes time. Preparation. Skills. And an accomplice who is apprised in manipulation tactics that rival the most intelligent law officials.

I pull London inside one of the cells.

“We might get trapped in here,” she says. But her eyes are wide in excitement. Those golden flecks sparkling.

“I could do time with you.” I wrap her in an embrace, bringing her close, and try to conceal the pain touching her causes me.

She’s never fooled. She immediately rolls my sleeves back to inspect.

The scars on my arms are covered in new red and silvery slashes. The razor cuts are still sensitive, the poison leaving behind a permanent imprint on my nerve endings.

“The pain will subside with time,” London says, tentatively touching the wounds. She looks up. “Any lingering side effects? Dizziness, paralysis?”

A grin curves my mouth. “Always the good doctor.”

She goes to say something more, and I cover her mouth with mine. Stealing her breath and inhaling her deeply.

It’s ironic that, what got me tried and found guilty, would also set me free. Corpus delicti. Body of the crime. It’s difficult to prove a death occurred without a body—but not impossible. Substantial circumstantial evidence is needed, and a witness.

A witness to observe the death is always helpful.

The psychotic FBI agent, obsessed with his capture rate, designed a death trap in the copycat manner to end my life, and he did. Grayson Peirce Sullivan is no more.

I now go by Cain Owen Hensley. That’s what it states on my fashioned ID.

I thought it was fitting, seeing as Cain killed Abel and then was doomed to wander the world aimlessly. Except I’m not aimless in my wandering. Not anymore.

I have a very specific destination.

“I can’t believe you chose Alcatraz,” London says as we board the ferry back to the mainland. “You’re disturbed.”

I smile. “I was always curious if I could escape it.”

As we watch the island get smaller in the distance, London turns to me. “Well, lucky for us, you’ll never have to find out.”

I place a lingering kiss to her forehead. “I’ll try to stay out of prison.”

“Oh, I know you will, Cain. Because I’m setting the ground rules now.”

My smile widens. “Yes, doctor.”

I have no choice but to trust her on that. She’s the one who designed my death, after all. I owe every bit of my freedom to her.

While London was crafting the trap, I rigged the container unit with an inner-glass chamber that not only provided a stabilized environment for the concentrated acid concoction, but also housed a separate compartment, obscured from view. Once the lift arms lowered beyond a certain level, it pulled a cord that dragged the container lid farther back, exposing the compartment. Which to anyone else, simply looked like part of the contraption.

But it was my safety net for the fall.

Being off by even an inch could’ve killed or exposed me. I had to be angled precisely, so that Nelson tumbled to the acid, and I could use his dead weight to propel myself away and land in the compartment.

I then had ten minutes to make it to a storage unit in London’s name and administer the antidote she concocted. Seems she had a scientist friend in the forensics’ department who enjoyed a challenge. And who enjoyed money even more.

The key to the antidote is under the container.

Her whispered words to me right before she pressed the knife to my neck.

Then she sank the blade into Nelson and pushed us to our deaths.

Perfectly planned and executed.

Yet, it was more than a gamble. Anything could’ve gone wrong. Foster may have not arrived in time, responding to London’s urgent text too late. He could’ve brought police with him, giving us too many witnesses to construct our narrative.

Foster’s broken arm might not have delayed his climb to the top of the container, giving us less time to eliminate Nelson, or for me to make my escape.

I’m still uneasy about the way it went down; trusting too much to chance. But change and acceptance are a part of becoming a couple. A duo. A team.

And that’s all there is. Fin.

Endings suck. Why shouldn’t they? We’re sad when life ends. We’re disappointed when something good comes to an end. No one wants an ending; we’re designed to want to last forever. So very difficult to bring an end to something brilliant that’s taken a lifetime to build.

For London and I, it should’ve been tragic.

All epic love stories have a tragic ending. The classic failure of two great souls is what makes their brief union passionate. Intense. Epic. And everyone enjoys a good love story. Give them what they want, so the story can end without dispute. A finality with a standing ovation.

I study London’s profile as she stares across the bay. She is stunning, beautiful. My dark goddess. My angel and savior.

There is one loose end…but I’ve decided not to pull that thread. London was the architect, and she waited until we were in the moment before she revealed the poison aspect of the trap.

I smile to myself. Maybe she thought I’d enjoy the surprise. Maybe it was a late addition to the trap. Or maybe she was waiting until the big reveal of my life before she made her final choice.

She won’t talk about it. And I won’t pull that thread. But I believe she went to Ireland to find that answer. She knew there might be a chance she’d have to sever our relationship.

I take her hand in mine and lace our fingers. Locked together.

The madness is held back for now. The fear that my genes will ravish my mind one day is never too far from my thoughts. Even so, London’s presence helps hold the compulsive thoughts at bay.

Because I know, if that day ever comes, London won’t fail me. She’ll give us the tragic ending we truly deserve.