Her lips tremble and, as I grip her to me, I drag my gaze over her, absorbing the tangle of fear and lust inside her with a dark growl. I breathe in her sweet scent, then capture her mouth in a violent kiss.
A moment where she surrenders under the swell, her soft lips closing rhythmically against mine, before she bites into the kiss. The metallic trace of blood fills the kiss and, as she breaks away, I lick my lip and smile.
The agents apprehend me, pulling me away from Halen and restraining my hands behind my back.
“Time and tide… sweetness.” I remind her as they haul me away. “And I’m done waiting.”
OceanofPDF.com
16
The Duality
Halen
I touch my lips, feeling the hot pulse of Kallum’s ruthless kiss. I can still taste his blood on my tongue. My heart beats erratically as I watch him being escorted away from the park by the federal agents.
When Kallum is placed in the backseat of the SUV, I finally haul in a full breath to fill my aching lungs and stagger to the bench before my legs collapse.
Every bit of strength I gathered to face him, to say the words I practiced, was stripped away when he pulled me so deep inside him. If not for the agents, I’d have given into him.
It’s taken me until now to understand the draw Kallum has had over me since the moment our eyes collided. I have feared him because of that, because of the logic he drains from my mind like a siphon.
I lose more than rational thought around him—I lose the woman I once endeavored to be.
I can feel his gaze on me, and I purposely stare at the trickling stream until the black SUV vanishes from my peripheral.
Calming my senses, I bring out my phone. The rope burn on my wrist catches my notice, and I yank the jacket sleeve down.
The injuries I sustained were not easily explained during processing. I had to own to my “peculiar” methods of putting myself in the minds of perpetrators while investigating crime scenes.
I confessed to binding my wrists as part of my research into the offender’s ritual. I confessed to cutting myself. Bathing my body in wine and blood.
In a degrading interview with Agent Alister, I admitted to using Kallum’s blood as a medium to further explore the ritual, to which he drew his own conclusion of our relationship crossing professional lines.
I did, however, deny that allegation. Stating Kallum was a willing participant in my prep work, but he was not to be held responsible for any of my actions as, at the time, I was the psychiatrist overseeing him.
My record will take a hit. I may never be able to have my own practice.
The final result was the FBI director signing a waiver on my behalf, as my method did ultimately lure the offender to the crime scene. And it was Agent Alister’s request that I and Kallum name a prime suspect within a tight deadline that prompted my extreme method of investigation.
Alister may have gotten admonished on that one, but he in no way suffered the same level of shaming as I did.
The catch is, I’m to give no interviews discussing my method or what transpired at the scene, and I had to sign a non-disclosure agreement to that effect.
The only small grace is Landry’s death was ruled a suicide. The medical examiner concluded Landry asphyxiated due to the convulsions from hemlock poisoning. I’m sure the FBI weighed in on that decision. With the victims still missing, it looks better on officials for the offender to have an uncomplicated death at his own hands.
Even still, there was no measure that could have been taken to save Landry’s life from the toxin. I’ve had to remind myself of this more than once.
Despite the waiver, the director of CrimeTech did dismiss me from my position within the company.
I’m jobless. Suffering delusional memories that haunt me every time I close my eyes. And potentially looking at a life sentence for murder—or being remanded to a mental hospital.
But first, before I leap off headfirst into any more abysses, I need answers.
Which is why I’m seeking those rational answers away from Kallum’s influence.
Holding the phone to my ear, I wait to be patched in to Dr. Floris’s line. When the doctor picks up, I hesitate a moment before asking her one of the questions plaguing me.
The endometrial ablation surgery I opted for after my miscarriage was due in part to Dr. Floris’s concern for my heavy bleeding, but was ultimately my choice after I decided I’d never become pregnant again.
There was discussions of other treatment methods, as she felt at my youthful age I may change my mind, but I was adamant.
“How?” I ask her on a shaky breath. I need at least one rational explanation to quiet the storm tearing at my mind.
“Halen, we’ve talked about this,” she says. In fairness to my doctor, I was never very present after the accident. “There is a chance you can have lighter periods and even begin regularly in less than a few years.”
“So what you’re saying is, it’s completely rational that I started my period.”
Her hesitancy seeps through the line. I’m sure she’s confused as to what answer will please me. After all, I did pay for an expensive surgery with the intent to stop bleeding.
“Halen,” she says carefully, “you’ve been through a lot. You have a high-stress career. Your hormones fluctuate. And stress, along with many other factors can—”
“I just need a logical explanation for what happened to me,” I snap at her.
“Yes,” she says. “It’s logical and even normal that you’re experiencing a period right now.”
The constriction in my chest loosens, and I abruptly thank her and hang up, not giving myself a moment to back out of making my next call. Before all of my authority is stripped away, I contact Joseph Wheeler.
I figure if he can get psychotic mental patients placed as consultants with the FBI for high-profile cases, then he can help me pull some strings to gain access to Kallum’s juvenile file—the sealed file only the judge was given access to during Kallum’s trial.
I issue my request, giving a vague reason as to why I require access, and using my doctorate for the first time as a method of persuasion. The chances are slim I’ll get that access, but I at least have to try.
As I head to the hotel, I keep my head down and gaze aimed on my phone as I try to avoid the press congesting the sidewalk.
There’s another call I need to make, but I’m undecided, worried I’m not yet ready to unpack the answer. I swipe away Dr. Torres’s contact and instead pull up my email.
To say it’s difficult for a psychologist or any mental health professional to ask for a psychological evaluation is an understatement. And I’m not yet sure if Dr. Torres is the right call in that regard. His stellar reputation aside, I have more questions for him than answers, and I have to be able to trust the doctor.
I have my own theories. Either Kallum drugged me—or I had an acute psychotic episode due to a number of stressors. Recent death of a loved one. Anniversary of the death of loved ones. High-stress work environment. All combined with the severe sleep deprivation I was suffering at the time could explain an extreme episode.
Which, with how deeply I was invested in the Harbinger case, would logically explain the reason as to why I have patchy memories, giving a sociopath like Kallum the opportunity to slip beneath my weakened mental defenses. He had the motive to do so. Yet…
For every logical explanation, there is an equally illogical factor. There is also the fact an innocent man was murdered to contend with—but if I layer on any more guilt right now, I will snap.
I’ll face all of my consequences in time.
Time and tide wait for no man.
I will surrender to time before Kallum Locke.
