London

Press conferences have a distinct aroma. A mix of stale coffee and aftershave, with an undercurrent of breath mints and leather. The way church smells. Even the man standing at the podium wears a gravely serious expression like a pastor, delivering his practiced speech for the masses.

I’ve learned to stare at the center of the podium. This way I don’t mimic the speaker’s facial expressions as I zone out. People have a tendency to take facial cues from others. An inherent trait we all learn early on to convey empathy.

And with so many eyes and cameras directed on me, it’s important that I don’t frown or smile, giving the media a thread to twist and tangle.

“Having gone over what remains of the evidence, I’ve concluded there was a gross negligence in the handling of victims’ cases.” States Attorney Kyle Sandow addresses the press with a stern glare into the cameras. “Therefore, the Mize Sheriff Department has been instructed to relinquish all pertinent evidence pertaining to the deceased Sheriff Malcolm Noble and the victims to the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

I’m seated in the front row, flanked by Agent Nelson and Detective Foster, who has become my shadow this past week. Every prominent member of law enforcement is here. Even the head of the FBI taskforce conducting the manhunt.

No one is interested in the Mize investigation. That’s so five weeks ago. The assembled congregation is waiting to hear the update that will confirm the Angel of Maine’s return.

The news stations are already capitalizing on the murder in Rockland, jumping ahead of authorities to declare that either their very own avenging angel has come home, or there is a new player in town, hope alive in their assertions. The people embrace Grayson as their vigilante, and the media adores the ratings he provides.

I’m here against my lawyer’s advice in order to study the crowd. A copycat killer isn’t unlike any other serial killer—he feeds off his celebrity, requiring recognition of his acts. He would insert himself close to the investigation, but not close enough to get caught.

After the murder of Larry Fleming was revealed to the public, with the media’s help, Bangor has once again become the hub—a prime feeding ground for a narcissistic imitator. A collection of all the major players gathered in one place would be impossible for him to resist.

Sandow’s face tightens into a solemn expression. “The FBI are now heading up this investigation as the search for Grayson Sullivan continues. We have no updates on his whereabouts at this time.” Sandow collects his notes. “Thank you.”

A collective barrage of questions rises in the room. One reporter stands and demands to know why Malcolm Noble, the confirmed Hollows Reaper, is being honored as a deceased sheriff, instead of the killer he was. Another pushes for a response to a recent article claiming the FBI’s focus on me has hindered their efforts to apprehend the Angel of Maine Killer. More shouts inquire about the murder in Rockland and its “alleged” connection to Grayson Sullivan.

Sandow quickly exits the stage, leaving the journalists’ questions unanswered.

I take my cue and flee the room before the vultures descend on me. Secured near the green room, I find a good spot to observe the departing crowd. Sandow’s refusal to talk about the murder will most likely irritate the copycat. He needs information—facts about the case. Not theories and hyped sensationalism from the media.

On a professional standpoint, I’m more than curious to observe the copycat’s response to the murder—his reaction and retaliation; how he’ll progress. I’ve never had the opportunity to interview a copycat killer before. I admit, ever since Grayson told me, my excitement to conduct research on the subject has manifested in an unhealthy obsession to reveal his identity.

A press reporter spots me, eagerness lighting his face. Before he can corner me, I push past the gathered bodies in the green room and through the back exit door.

An overcast sky greets me outside. The muggy humidity sinks right into my skin. There’s a charge in the air, a summer storm brewing. The alley darkens as looming, rain-bloated clouds cross the sun.

I fill my lungs with a deep breath, still astonished at how fast I moved to reach the outside. Not a stitch of pain to hinder my getaway. I arch my back and suck in another fresh breath, just to test my lumbar.

The mind never ceases to amaze. One moment I’m suffering acute back pain that has plagued me since the accident, the next it’s as if I can’t recall what that pain ever felt like.

Am I free, or is this sweet glimpse of liberty a prelude to my end? Like the brief reprieve you’re given before death, when all pain receptors shut down.

“They’re not getting any easier, are they?”

I close my eyes at the sound of Agent Nelson’s gruff voice. “No,” I answer simply, honestly.

“I wish I could say this was the last press conference,” he says. “But the public is intrigued with your story. They’re curious.”

A sardonic laugh slips free. “Appalled is more like it.” The number of enraged emails and letters I’ve received since my initial press conference announcing the buried dead girls that I—suddenly—recalled in my childhood home backyard has garnered me a lot of negative attention.

I’m accustomed to being despised for what I do; my career isn’t a glamorous one. But I’ve never before been loathed with such vitriol on a national level. The narcissist in me wants to set the record straight, but my lawyer has smartly kept me from engaging in any more conferences myself.

I turn and face the agent. “Has there really been no updates on Sullivan’s whereabouts?”

His expression shutters. That expert close-off agents are so skilled at. “You’re not in danger.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

He drives a hand through his shaggy, dirty-blond hair. His slight rebellious act against the FBI. And it’s his tell. Whenever he means to misdirect me, he goes for the hair. A clear sign that it’s worked for him on other women in the past.

“What about the murder in Rockland?” I hedge. “The press seem to believe there’s a connection. Sandow didn’t even dance around it—he deliberately ignored it. To me, a blatant omission like that is very revealing.”

“Always analyzing,” he mutters.

“Occupational hazard.”

His nostrils flare. “You shouldn’t be following the news, London. You, above all, know how reporters distort the truth.”

It’s risky, my own methods of misdirection. Nelson is intelligent, and the more time we spend together, the more he’s learning my tells. But I need some shred of information from him. A hint as to whether or not he’s looking into the murder of one Larry Fleming in connection to Grayson.

When the stakes are high enough, you go all in.

As Grayson doesn’t do anything halfway, I’m sure he left his calling card with Larry. His DNA, or another decisive marker the FBI will uncover soon, if they haven’t already.

Why else would Agent Nelson be here?

“There’s some speculation that Sullivan has left the country,” Nelson says, stuffing his hands into his suit pockets. “But I’m not giving you those details. It’s not confirmed, and anything I might tell you could put you in danger. The less you know—”

“The better,” I finish for him. He’s lying. I cross my arms. “You do understand what my specialty is. There’s no one else that can help you get inside Sullivan’s mind like I can. I’m an asset, agent. Not a victim.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Detective Foster interrupts. “Does that mean you’re ready to confess your part?”

My attention shifts to the bulky detective exiting the back door. Detective Foster has been the loudest conspirator against me, citing publicly that I was Grayson’s accomplice in helping him escape.

The fact that certain unfavorable details from my past have come to light only adds fuel to his fire.

I push my glasses up, getting a better look at him. He’s gained a considerable amount of weight since the trial. “Detective Foster, should I schedule a session soon in regards to stress eating? You know it’s not healthy to eat your weight in disappointment.”

A mock smile stretches his ruddy face. “Thanks for the offer, doc. But truth be told, I’m a little terrified to be under your care. Or should I say, influence?”

Agent Nelson huffs his frustration. He’s not a particular fan of the New Castle detective, either. “You’re not required to attend the press meetings, Foster. Why are you here?”

The detective adjusts the dipping waist of his cheap slacks. “I like to stay in the loop firsthand. It’s interesting that Sandow didn’t state anything about Rockland.” He reaches into his inseam for a pack of cigarettes. “Don’t you find that interesting, Agent Nelson? With Sullivan’s DNA having been found on the vic…it’s like the FBI are trying to conceal the evidence. Why is that?”

Disbelief snatches my breath. My shocked gaze swings to Nelson. “Is this true?”

When Nelson didn’t return right away after the summit in Mize, I believed he remained there to press forensics on my sister’s remains. Like he claimed. The fact that he had a lead on Grayson and didn’t tell me proves I’ve made very little progress with him.

Nelson steps to Foster aggressively. “I want you out of my crime scenes, Foster. I’ll take out a restraining order if I have to.”

Foster chuckles. “You Feds don’t threaten me.”

“If you leak one word of this to the press—”

“If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen,” I say, glancing between the two men. “This is my testosterone limit for the day. I need to get back to my patients.”

“I was hoping you could give me a statement on your whereabouts the night of the vic’s murder,” Foster says, stopping my retreat short. “There’s a station right around the corner—” he nods past the three-story building. “I’m sure the boys in blue wouldn’t mind loaning me an interrogation room.”

“You have no jurisdiction here, detective. My lawyer and I agree that your obsessive interest in me is now bordering on harassment.” Every chance I get, I bring my lawyer up to Foster. It makes him flinch, being reminded of the way Allen Young belittled him on the witness stand during Grayson’s trial.

“Let me call an officer detail to escort you,” Nelson says to me in a low tone.

I shake my head. “No. I’m fine. I’m only a few blocks away.”

“Then I’ll take you myself,” he counters.

Defeated, I nod my acceptance. Constant monitoring has become the new norm for my life. The closer they watch me, the further from Grayson I feel.

And now Nelson is keeping the investigation from me. I have to remedy that.

I lift my chin toward Foster. “Call my lawyer if you need a statement. You know who he is.” Then I start out of the alley.

Foster steps into my path. “Some things just don’t line up.”

He’s like a mutt with a bone. I sigh my frustration and check my phone notifications, denying him my full attention.

He taps an unlit cigarette against his hand. “You had contusions around your neck that couldn’t have been from the car wreck. Your father”—he pauses with a snide smile—“I’m sorry, Malcolm sustained a lethal injury to the external jugular vein that was documented incorrectly, as a laceration due to the broken window shield of the vehicle.”

I relax my facial muscles, my expression unreadable. I’ve been up against smarter, tougher opponents before—some of which I faced more recently as I gave my official statement to the FBI. If Foster thinks I’m going to come undone for him in an alley, he’s undeserving of the little respect I hold for him.

“Lawyer,” I pronounce slowly.

He nods his head, then steps aside. “I’ll have my answers, Dr. Noble. Soon.”

“Ignore him,” Nelson says as he guides me past the detective. “His powerlessness on the case is just getting to him.”

I glance over, surprised by his insight. “I know.”

Agent Nelson is mostly quiet as we walk toward my building. The morning noises of the city are a comfort in spite of his relentless hovering. Ever since the day he discovered me cuffed to one of Grayson’s death traps, the FBI agent has inserted himself into my life, keeping a constant vigil over me. When he can’t be present, he makes sure I have a detail. As my friend, I suspect he wants me to believe, or even as a romantic interest. Someone who I can trust.

But the truth of his intentions lie in the guarded looks he gives me when he assumes I’m not paying attention. I’m a person of interest. A possible connection to Grayson. Nelson is quite skilled in the art of duplicity, as he should be in order to carry his badge.

I’m better, though.

My training exceeds the years I devoted to studying human behavior. I’ve been a student of deception from the moment Malcolm Noble swiped me and my sister from our parents.

Humans use each other. I don’t fault the agent for his tactics. I’m using him just the same. He’s my only means to discover any new leads the authorities uncover on Grayson. He’s my only way to know whether or not the FBI will turn on me.

I need him to trust me.

Although there’s nothing damning that Foster can say to tarnish my reputation further, I’m not conceited enough to think I’m above the law. My statement to Agent Nelson and the FBI referenced the accusations the detective leveled against me in detail. Hence why the agent at my side had no reaction to Foster.

I divulged the story as I ran recall it:

The man I believed to be my father attempted to strangle me after I discovered the dead girl in our basement. He locked me in the cell while he disposed of her body, then he forced me to drive us away from our home with the awareness that I was driving toward my own death… Weary and distraught, I wrecked the car into a giant oak.

When I awoke, I had no memory of Malcolm’s victims or his attack on me. The accident masked my injuries as well as his, and the officials documented the entire incident as a tragic accident.

I left Mize, Mississippi shortly afterward to pursue a grant for a college education. Sixteen was young, yes—but as I homeschooled myself and graduated early, I had nothing—no family, no friends—to tether me to that life.

The rest, as they say, was history.

Clear. Concise. Easy to recite. No holes in my story unless you know where to look.

I was analyzed by an FBI psychologist who deemed the trauma of both the attack and the wreck had repressed the truth of the horrific events. I even underwent a brain scan that revealed lesions on my right and left frontal lobes may have developed due to moderate-to-dramatic brain injury during the accident, further backing my story of repression and exonerating me of any malicious connections to Malcolm or Grayson.

Frontal lobe damage. The areas of the brain that control behavior, judgment, and impulse control. Not to mention sexual conduct. A neurologist would have a field day dissecting me.

Yet, had the Mize investigating officers done their due diligence and questioned the evidence to confront me, I might have recovered my memories sooner. Rather, I had to suffer through another horrific event for the truth to be revealed.

This is what’s documented in my file. The report stamped and sealed in an FBI manila folder. The electronic data protected by a government security system.

With the discovery of the missing dead girls, and the small population of Mize traumatized by their late, beloved Sheriff Noble becoming a grotesque fiend, Agent Nelson and his superiors felt there was no need to enlighten the press with details that won’t 1) hinder the investigation, and 2) turn the media into more of a circus than it already is.

They have their hands full with analyzing the remains of nine young women and the manhunt for an escaped serial killer. As long as all the pieces connect neatly, their puzzle of me is complete.

Grayson saw to it that my puzzle connected neatly.

“You should’ve told me,” I say, breaking the prolonged silence.

Nelson tucks his hands into the pockets of his slacks. “You’re right. I apologize. You should’ve been made aware of Sullivan’s vicinity to you.” He glances my way. “I made that call. I felt you were under enough stress.”

Chivalry was not his motive. Being unaware of Grayson made me a sitting target the FBI could use. How many agents are watching me right now?

“You handled that well…back there,” Nelson says as we near the steps of my building. “Once the dust settles, maybe you could write a book. Tell your whole story.”

I bow my head, give it a slight shake. “No. I’ve relived my story enough already. Whatever is still buried there—” I tap my temple “—I’d rather not provoke it.”

When I look up, the creases around his eyes are softer. His gaze understanding. “And when you get the call about your sister?”

My chest rises as I force air into my lungs. “If…when you discover her identity, I’ll honor her memory properly. I’ll bury her remains.”

But that’s not what he’s asking. Once her identity is revealed, so is mine. I’ll know who I was before Malcolm stole me, and who my parents were. The question of whether or not they’re still alive was answered after the first week.

There were plenty of claims made by attention seekers. People stepping forward to declare me as their long-lost child. Or those who maintained they knew my parents.

None of those leads resulted in any truth. Whoever my parents were, wherever they are, they’re no longer alive. I feel sure of this. The false claims just muddied the investigation and pushed me further down the rabbit hole.

I’ve been steadily climbing out of that hole.

I am London Grace Noble.

My dead sister…my deceased parents… They hold no bearing over who I am. The mind does not accept an alternate reality; two lives cannot exist in one form. The life I’ve lived will not suddenly upend the moment I discover the name given to me by my biological parents.

I was raised by a man that I knew as my father, who—for all intents and purposes—was good to me until the moment I uncovered his evil secret. Though looking back now, I can clearly discern discrepancies my adolescent mind found no fault with, at the time, it was a normal life.

No one knows the absolute truth about anyone.

As we age, we become more and more limited with the degree in which we can change. At my current age, my personality and mindset are firmly in place. The discovery of my roots will do little to alter my existence.

With a hesitant hand, Nelson swipes loose strands from my eyes. “That’s too bad. You’d write a riveting story. Full of big words and psych terms no one could follow.”

I allow a small laugh to bubble up. This is what’s expected of a woman attracted to a man. She flatters him by indulging his sense of humor.

“I admit, I’d love to read it, if only to answer some of my own…” He trails off.

My defenses go on alert. It’s also expected of me to ask this man to finish his sentence. Securing my interest in him and his thoughts. But the psychologist reads the change in his breathing. The dilation of his pupils. His adrenaline just spiked. He’s practiced this question, the moment rehearsed. If it was impulse, his demeanor wouldn’t change.

He’s preparing his lie.

I lick my lips, drawing his attention to my mouth. “What do you want to know, agent?”

He leaves his hand fixed to my neck, a touch of dominance. “The key,” he says. “What happened to the key?”

The key Malcolm Noble wore around his neck. The one I drove into his jugular to end his life.

The murder weapon.

No one except Grayson knows the complete truth of that night. That my “father” forced me to help take a girl’s life. That I in turn killed him during his attack on me. That I wrecked into a tree with the intent to end my own life…

So much darker than the story I told the FBI.

I step closer to him and put my hand on his chest. My point of contact serves two purposes. To distract him from the acceleration of my heartbeat that occurs when telling a lie, and to divert his focus to the sexual tension between us.

He may be a federal agent, but he’s still a man. Simple in his desires. Sex is a tried-and-true method of control.

I inhale deeply, allowing my breasts to graze his chest. “I don’t remember,” I say, a tremor causing my voice to crack. “It must’ve gotten lost at some point during his attack on me…or the accident. I don’t know, and I’m not sure I want to remember…”

He cups the back of my neck, brings me into an embrace. His arm locks around my waist as he releases a heavy exhale. His reaction is either one of disappointment, or relief. Deep down, I don’t believe Agent Nelson wants me to be a villain.

He wants to be the hero of my story. He wants to fuck me without any guilt.

That could never happen. I need an antihero to complete me. A man that looks beneath my surface into the black abyss of my soul and licks his lips, ravenous to devour me.

All one has to do is look at my brain scan to see that.

As he pulls away, his eyes crease in a squint, gaze narrowed on where his thumb rests on my neck. I used foundation to try to conceal the bruise left behind by Grayson’s rough touch. Nelson glimpses that mark, and I wonder if it arouses him, the thought of me fucking—roughly—away my worries.

“Call me if you need anything.” He steps back without having acted on his attraction.

I nod, demurely pushing a hank of hair behind my ear. “I will. Thank you.”

I reach the top step and turn to watch him walk away. He’s satisfied with my answers for now, but once the dust settles—as he put it—he’ll have more questions. Those trifling little inconsistencies that drive men like him to do the job they do and excel at it.

He has more in common with the men he hunts than he realizes. How else could he work these types of cases, get inside deviants’ heads to bring them to justice? If Agent Nelson had suffered one or two horrific events in his own life, he may have even ended up the villain himself.

Just like Grayson, Nelson needs the pieces to snap together neatly. He won’t be satisfied until he has all the answers.