Dr. Ian West

I flip on the light and toss my keys on the table as I trek to my kitchen. Before I start to pack, I pour two fingers of bourbon into a tumbler. I’ll need this.

The cup just reaches my lips when an eerie feeling trails the back of my neck, making the hairs lift away from my skin. That’s not a feeling to ignore. Thousands of years of survival instincts delivered in one punch.

I see it then—the silver cup on my bar counter.

“I was hoping you’d choose my cup. But I guess cravings are stronger than reason.”

I whirl around, the bourbon splashing my hand. A man is sitting in my mother fucking living room. “Who the fuck are you, and why are you in my apartment?”

He stands, then gradually moves into the slant of light. I recognize him. Andrew Smith. The history teacher.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” I accuse. “You’re a member of the jury.”

“The case is over,” he says nonchalantly.

I take a hard swallow of alcohol before I set the glass down. “You have exactly five seconds to tell me what the hell you’re doing here before I call the cops.” I take out my phone and hold it up.

“You have something of mine. It’s time to return it.”

I squint at him, then glance at the silver cup. The floor beneath my feet shifts. The air vacates the room, my lungs deprived of oxygen for the briefest moment as realization collides.

All those moving parts… They slam together in one epic grand finale.

I move to my left, putting the table between us. Giving myself a second to think.

The motel DNA. Since the start of the case, I wondered how Shaver made such a careless mistake. A beginner mistake. Toss around enough synonyms, and we get rookie…novice…apprentice.

Smith is a history teacher…

The answer dings inside my skull like a bell.

Teacher and pupil.

“So which one are you?” I ask. “The master or apprentice?”

His smile tips one side of his mouth up, as if my question is only slightly amusing to him. “You’ve done your research, but I wouldn’t expect anything less of the great Dr. West.”

“All right, then. Master, I presume. Just tell me how the hell you wormed your way onto my jury?”

“Your jury?” He chuckles. “The biggest delusion we believe is that we have any control whatsoever.”

Me. I’m the one who put him on the jury. I failed to see what was right in front of me. He manipulated voir dire, but I’m the one who was supposed to see through the act. I didn’t, and he slipped right past us, all because I wanted a foreman who I could easily read.

He set me up.

And I let him.

Which begs the question: “If Shaver’s your apprentice, or student…lackey?” I give my head a mocking shake. What’s his button? “Then why didn’t you sway the jury to find Shaver innocent? I mean, that’s why you were there. To make sure the trial went your way and not mine, right?”

A puppet master who needs to control everyone and everything. I should’ve seen through Shaver—I should’ve seen that he was lacking.

Smith is medium height. Short brown hair. Ordinary and unassuming. This man can get lost in a crowd. Overlooked. It’s so blatantly obvious now—but isn’t it always? When we’re fed the answer later? When we’re just too damn late?

In retrospect, I was preoccupied with Porter. Falling for her…saving her.

This man found my button on day one.

He fans a hand over the table, inviting me to sit at my table. Ballsy.

“I’ll stand. Thanks.”

He shrugs and pulls a chair out to sit. He folds his hands on the table, comfortable. Not worried about what I’ll do in the least. “Shaver was supposed to be the answer. I get…tired. Having an apprentice to take over seemed like the solution.”

“Did your cards tell you this?” I’m trying to analyze just how delusional this man is, and thereby how dangerous. The door is a few feet away, but I can’t leave. We both know this. He has answers. But what’s more, I can’t leave behind another threat to Porter.

“Yes,” he says. “The cards pointed me to Shaver. But it wasn’t until his sloppy work got him caught that the real reason I chose him was revealed. The cards are never wrong. But at times, they can be mysterious. I have immense patience, however.”

Play into his delusion. Keep him talking calmly. I’m trying to assess him and the situation…but my mind is overloaded. The one thing—the main thing—I want to do is wrap my hands around his neck and end the chance he’ll ever get near the woman I love.

“It was you. You took Porter,” I say as it comes to me. “You twisted fuck. You watched us together, then you waited—like a coward—for me to leave. Then you took her.”

He tsks. “You’re getting ahead of yourself, Dr. West. We’ll get to that. I need you to understand something vital first.”

My shoulders tense. “What…Smith? I also presume that’s not your name?”

“To you it is. But that’s not important. What you need to understand is that Shaver wasn’t the answer. You were. The man in the cloak.” A beat. “Shaver led me to you, so I forgave his tiresome blunders. Until he was no longer useful.”

Shaver would be able to appeal and try to make a deal if there was proof another killer was involved with the murders. This man—Smith—made sure that couldn’t happen.

Suddenly, the card I carry in my pocket feels like it might burn a hole through my skin.

Smith studies me, head tilted. “You have the card, I presume.”

I say nothing.

His smile is knowing. “Of course you do. It’s your trophy, Dr. West. Killers keep them to recall their precious memories of their victims.”

“I’m not a killer, you deluded bastard. And now, since this is going nowhere, I’m making that call.”

“No, you’re not. Because I have something even more valuable to you.” He dips a hand into his pocket, and I tense…waiting…until I glimpse the white corner of an envelope. “The man you’re looking for, the one who kidnapped Porter, is Gregory Miller.”

Confusion pulls my eyebrows together. I don’t like not having the answers beforehand. I try to work it out before I say anything, but Smith offers the answer first. He’s running this show. For now.

“Gregory is a nurse at the downtown hospital. He might have even passed you in the hallway while running tests for Porter. Such a small world.”

“Why are you snitching on your accomplice?”

His smile lights his dark eyes. “Gregory is in my safekeeping. You won’t find him. Not without this…” He fans the envelope.

“What do you want from me? Other than your damn Tarot card.”

His features darken. “I want my salvation, Dr. West.”

Shaver said the same thing during his evaluation. “What does that mean?”

He only smiles. Then: “Gregory was an intern three years ago,” he continues, as if we have all the time in the world. “Do you know how many hours interns sleep during a week? Approximately twenty. They stay up for hours, downing coffee to stay awake, while in that first year of training.” He shakes his head. “That’s ironic, isn’t it? They train to save lives, and yet, their very duty-bound drive makes them a hazard to those they deem to save. Well, it makes them a hazard on the road, anyway.”

My legs go weak. Shaking, I plant my hands on the table. No. He’s a liar.

“You’re an intelligent man, Dr. West. I’m sure you’re linking the pieces together.”

My knuckles ache as I try to steady myself, teeth gritted. “You’re lying.”

Features masked, he remains a still reed at the insult. “Am I? There was a witness to Melanie’s hit and run. The police report redacts this information to protect the identity. Finding the witness was easy. All you need is a person who can provide the full report. Now, getting this witness to confess to what they really saw was a bit trickier. At the time, they didn’t want to get involved, so lying came naturally. But pain doesn’t. Pain breaks the most stubborn wills.” His gaze narrows on me, scrutinizing. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

He tortured the eye witness to find the driver’s identity. I reach for appall—but there’s a dark, shallow part of me that is envious, that despises myself for lacking the ability to have done this myself.

“Pain can make a person insane,” I say. “I see it’s worked wonders on you.”

He shrugs. “You can try reverse psychology, but it won’t give you what you want. I’m already offering you answers.” He sits back, lifting his head higher. “What Shaver told you about the gypsy was true. It was my story he fed you, along with every tantalizing detail and clue. You were just too blinded by your own pain to see it then. But now you can.”

I wedge another piece of the puzzle into place. “So you blackmailed this Gregory guy to lock Porter in a shipping container. To drug her and torture her…”

“It’s true. We all cave when confronted with the demons of our past. Gregory was haunted by his, tortured by the fear that his sin would become known. Therefore, he was willing to take a second woman’s life, rather than repent for the first.”

Rage covers my vision.

Smith reveals a Tarot deck, shuffles it leisurely. Then flips over a card. “The Lovers.”

Porter’s card.

“You still have it.” A mix of fear and relief edges my voice. “You didn’t give her the card.”

“Porter wasn’t haunted by her demons. She was carrying yours. It seems together, you set each other free.” He slips the card back into the deck. “Very inspiring.”

She’s safe. I hear nothing else.

“I’m not a monster, regardless of what you may think,” he says. “If you dig deeper into my victims, you’ll see what I see, what the cards see—all the pain and torment. Lives haunted by the unforgivable actions of their past. The cards give them a path, a choice, but it’s up to them to accept their fate.”

My head spins. I clutch the edge of the table, grounding myself. “And what do you believe is my fate?”

His gaze bores through me. “You’ve come so far…you’re so close.”

“Tell me!”

“It was never Porter’s blood that was meant to spill, Dr. West. Your cup will always remain half empty, no matter how much you love Porter. No matter how much you strive to move on. You are a haunted man, because Melanie’s killer was never brought to justice.”

I shake my head.

“Yes. Your demons are screaming inside you now. That’s why you punish the wicked. Trying to silence their voices. But there’s only one way to quiet them.”

“No.”

He holds up the envelope in a taunt. “Accept your fate, Dr. West, and become my apprentice. Become my salvation.”

I laugh. The sound leaves my constricted throat in a strangled mock. “I’m not your puppet.” I lift my chin, forcing bravado. “Your cards lied to you.”

“Oh. They never lie.” He makes to stand, and I raise the table and slam it down.

“Give me the envelope,” I demand. I grip the edge of the table, envisioning ramming it into his throat.

He slips it between his fingers. “Of course. It’s my gift to you. You’re the only one to ever come this close, Dr. West. You looked into the monster’s eyes and faced your fear, faced your bones.”

I release a tense breath. “You’re a delusional psychopath who will spend the rest of his life locked in a white, padded room. Now give me his fucking location.”

He stands, but all I can see is that envelope in his hand. “What will you do with it?”

My gut clenches as too many prospects assault me at once.

“Here you are again. A man with a choice. Hand Gregory over to authorities and take a gamble with the justice system that he’ll be punished. Or take justice into your own hands to administer that punishment yourself.”

“No.” I shake my head, trying to clear the very thought. But it’s consuming.

“You could punish the driver who took the life of your precious Melanie, like you’ve longed to do. Reap your vengeance on a selfish man who was never punished for the life he stole.”

My heart beats wildly. I fasten my eyes closed, breathing through the onslaught of raw pain and wrath.

“What will you choose?” Smith asks, an excited edge creeping into his voice. “I’m curious to see, Dr. West. I’ve been very impressed by you. So impressed, I feel we’re akin.”

“We’re nothing alike. I promise you that.”

His eyebrows raise. “What you choose not to see, isn’t the same as denial. You’re no longer blind.” He steps toward the door.

Rage fires through me, and I finally move, making the effort toward Smith. “You’re not going anywhere.”

“Yes, I am. You’re letting me walk out.” He extends his hand, Gregory’s location a barrier between us. “This one is a simple choice for you. A simple trade.”

“Fuck.” I grip my hair, turn to face the bar, and in the end, my weakness wins out.

I remove the Five of Cups from my jacket and slap it on the table. With a flip of my fingers, I send the card across the tabletop. He picks it up and analyzes it for a beat before he removes the deck from his pocket and slips the card on top.

“Until next time, Dr. West.” He lays the envelope on the table, then leaves.

I let the true Arcana Killer walk out of my door.

I sit down at the table, in the same chair where he sat, and stare at the envelope. I hold it for what feels like hours before I finally work up the courage to tear it open.

The address of Gregory Miller puts him ten minutes away.

“Dammit.”

There is no secret killer lair where Smith is keeping him. He lied, and he could be lying about everything… But that grief latches on to the truth in his words. He bluffed me to get on the jury, and he bluffed me just now—but I’m still damn good at what I do.

I discerned the truth in his words about Gregory Miller.

And the pieces fit.

Melanie’s killer has lived here all this time, passing our loft on his way home. Did he think of her as he drove by? Did he take a different route, avoiding the reminder?

Did he look up her name?

Did he visit her grave?

The questions plague me, and I will never have them.

Unless I get them.

I push the paper into my pocket and grab my phone. I make the call as I’m walking out, adrenaline rocketing through my system.

“Eddie. I know it’s late, but listen closely and don’t interrupt. I’m texting you the address of Porter’s abductor. He’s there now…and I need police at this location in less than ten minutes. Do it now.”

I end the call.

Sometimes, fate is like flipping a coin. Heads you win. Tails you lose.

And then occasionally, there are no winners. Fate is a cruel, conniving bitch. We think we can best her, but it’s always a toss up. A silver coin flipped in the mother fucking air.

What will you do?

In the video, when Porter was pleading to me…she begged me to do the right thing.

That question ricochets around my skull as I walk steadily, assuredly, toward the home of Melanie’s killer. I pray—to fate, to Mel, to Porter—that the authorities get there first.

In a twisted world where pain is met around every corner, where it shrouds good with evil and mangles your insides, it’s the only right thing I know to do.