“But the most troubling aspect, and the reason apprehending the offender is crucially time sensitive is that, while he believes he is worthy of ascension into the overman, he has weaknesses holding him back.” Her gaze darts to me briefly where I hover at the end of the row, and everything left unsaid and unfinished blazes between us.

“His doubt is manifesting into a delusional state,” she continues, “where, if he can’t conquer his fear, if he cannot overcome his weakness of the flesh, out of desperation he may turn toward a primeval alchemy, one incorporating human sacrifice, to achieve his goal.” She takes a steadying breath as the weight of her words bears down on the room. “By sacrificing his victims to Dionysus, he will make himself less human, thereby separating himself from his mortal aspect and allowing himself to ascend and become other, divine.”

But that’s not the full scope of what she’s come to realize. I can sense her holding back.

If we take into account the literal vein to which the offender is interpreting the metaphors, then it’s not a huge leap from sacrifice to cannibalize.

Actually, it’s not a leap at all—it’s a bridge.

Zarathustra could only find characteristics of the overman among the herd. He sent those he referred to as “higher men” to his cave where he proclaimed these men were bridges to the overman. Then they feasted.

With the way Halen is avoiding eye contact with the locals, it appears she’s drawn the conclusion that, maybe the offender is weary of feasting with his chosen higher men and he’ll soon feast on them in order to take their overman aspects within himself.

“So this sick fuck is carving off pieces of people because he’s a weak pervert, is that what you’re saying?” Detective Emmons asks. The sharp edge in his tone cuts through the tense room. He runs a hand down his unshaven face in an impatient manner.

Halen lowers her tablet, her expression somber. “Essentially, yes.”

“And you’re positive the victims are alive?” Emmons presses.

Halen’s lips pinch together in a tight grimace. “I’m not the one to answer that question, Detective Emmons. I’m sorry.”

While Alister directs the chief medical examiner to confirm his findings, I close the distance between us, sensing the muddled emotions within her. Today, her confusion is stronger than her grief, and it’s draining.

I move to stand beside her and notice the suitcase on the floor. “You’re not leaving.”

Without acknowledging me directly, she slips her tablet into her bag. “I am officially done here.” She delivers her point by slinging my words from last night back at me.

“No, you’re not done. You’re running. There’s a difference.”

Frustration seizes her petite frame, and she drops her satchel on the seat of the chair. “You’re right. I am running. I’m running away from you, Kallum. Is that what you want to hear? Well, I admit it.”

The accident report detailed Halen as the driver in the car wreck that claimed the life of her fiancé. I wasn’t aware of her other loss, of her miscarriage, until last night. She didn’t have to say it aloud; I read the painful truth in the way she touched her stomach, the devastating pain that wracked her until she could no longer hold herself up.

She’s been running from that grief since the day she was released from the hospital. Concealing her scars. Hiding from her life, reality. Immersing herself so far down in her cases to escape the pain.

And now, to escape it once more, she’s even willing to sacrifice the truth she so desperately craves.

“You’re leaving without your answers,” I say to her. “But we both know why that is.”

When she finally looks at me, the depth of her resentment damn near flays me alive. I made her want . I made her feel . But my worst offense: for a brief moment, I made her forget .

And that truth hovers in the tense space around us, adding weight to her own self-deprecating feelings where, if she scrutinizes what happened between us too closely, she’ll have to face the frightening realization of what she’s capable of.

How will she rationalize getting off with a killer?

I hurt my doctors. I kill my rivals. I’m a delusional, psychotic serial killer. I’m a disturbed practitioner of chaos magick.

All she accepts as fact in order to reckon how she was manipulated into feeling a sick attraction to the villain.

I’m okay with being her sickness. I can even be her antidote.

Leaving all of it unsaid, she gives her attention to the front of the room, where the loud disturbance of Detective Emmons scraping his chair back gains everyone’s notice as he pushes to his feet.

He straightens his wide police hat. “Then why the fuck are we just sitting here, listening to bullshit theories instead of interrogating every single possible suspect right now?”

Emmons makes his point by storming out of the room. A number of his colleagues silently follow after him.

Agent Alister regains control of the room and proceeds to update the whiteboard, then starts handing out personalized assignments. The whole while, I refuse to release Halen from my gaze, studying the way she blatantly avoids my presence.

“That was impressive, Professor Locke.” Devyn stands opposite of us, a row of metal chairs before her.

“On your part, too,” I say, still keeping Halen in my sights. “I thought I was the only one who got under Alister’s skin.”

I catch her smile in my peripheral, then she directs a serious look toward Halen. “Based on what you said, I think we have a main suspect,” she says to her. “There’s this hermit guy who lives in a creepy gothic mansion on the outskirts of town. I know, not politically correct, but that’s actually what people call him. Hermit Guy who lives in the creepy mansion. Since you owe me one, I’d really appreciate it if you’d come with me to question him.”

Halen shoulders her bag, and I take note of how she hoists the strap onto her left shoulder rather than her dominant right, and the way she’s buttoned her thermal all the way to the top.

Halen expels a breath as she faces Devyn. “I’m relieved my profile was of use to you,” she says, “and as much as I want to help further, and I really appreciate all you’ve done, Devyn…” She stalls. “I’m off the case. If I go with you, my presence will only hurt your investigation.”

Devyn’s pursed features convey her dismal acceptance. She shakes her head. “Fucking feds.”

Halen gives her a fragile yet genuine smile. “I’ll make sure Professor Locke can help you. He’ll be of more use than me anyway. It was his expertise that built the profile, so he should be the one to help conduct interviews.”

“That’s not happening.” Alister approaches, all bluster as if the two women standing here didn’t just take him down a hundred pegs. “Childs,” he addresses Devyn. “I’ve appointed a few agents to accompany you to your suspect’s residence. They’re leaving now.”

With a guarded look, she nods to Alister. “All right. At least we’re moving forward.” She touches Halen’s arm. “Thank you for all you’ve done to help.”

“Good luck, Devyn.” Halen watches her friend head off toward the cluster of suits before she starts to turn away.

“St. James, Locke, a word.” Alister pivots, expecting us to follow.

Halen’s gaze fleetingly touches mine before she trails behind Alister toward a glass-enclosed office.

After Alister closes the door, Halen removes a printed report from her satchel and thrusts it toward the agent. “Here is the final profile. Any required follow up reports will be issued to you through my department.”

Alister accepts the report without looking at it and sets it on the desk. Then he taps his phone screen. A printer wakes and starts scratching out papers.

Halen grips the strap of her bag, uncertain. “As I’m of no more value to the case and my investigation of the crime scene is complete, I’ll be leaving today. However”—she glances at me—“Professor Locke should still be considered a valuable asset and remain on the case, as his expertise will be needed to decipher any future crime scenes or discoveries.”