But there’s no comparison to having the feel of something tangible in your hands, to touch it, to know you’re so close.

I bring my hand to my nostrils and inhale deeply, breathing in her delectable scent, before I reach down and adjust myself.

Such sweetness, like the tastiest peach—one I can’t wait to sink my teeth into and feel the juice dribble down my chin.

My obsession didn’t start small. It rushed me like a tsunami. Watching this docile little thing walk the university. Seeing her nibble her lip, tuck the white strand of hair behind her ear every time it fell loose.

A flurry of chaos swirled around her like a vortex, yet her pain was so profound it stilled her amid the storm, a heavy anchor not even a tidal wave could uproot.

I was so fucking awestruck, I gave in to the irritating itch to scratch her surface, to unravel the enthralling spell she had over me.

She was an unhealthy craving I had to have.

I curl my hand into a fist, feeling the echo of her staccato heartbeat against my fingers.

She was like gravity. The moon goddess herself controlling my tide.

Then she became the spider.

And she spun me right into her web of pain.

OceanofPDF.com

4

Bag of Tricks

Halen

Y ou have no idea what’s within your power, sweetness.

Kallum’s words taunt me like his woodsy scent of clean sandalwood, like a secret confession, as if he deliberately baited me with a veiled implication of what he knows.

Which, admittedly, could be nothing at all, and he’s simply using me and my case to his advantage. Like a true sociopath, he’s mastered the art of manipulation.

Realistically, Devyn quoting Chaucer at the scene could be a coincidence. Which would give credence to Aubrey’s claim of my obsession with Kallum.

Maybe I’ve worked in this field too long, have seen too many cryptic things. The rational psychologist within me fights to be heard over the irrational sentiment that nothing is ever coincidence.

Just a guess , he said.

Men like Kallum don’t guess.

He saw something in those images. He knows more. I feel it in my bones the way I felt he was connected to the Cambridge murder, and I have to follow my instinct, even if it leads down a path of ruin.

I have to—because while working the Cambridge scene, I wasn’t at my best. I wasn’t sleeping. I was sidetracked with painful memories, furious that yet another piece of my past was being tainted. I made mistakes…I know I did…otherwise Kallum would be sitting in a prison rather than this cushy hospital.

This is my chance to rectify that.

Just six months ago, I knew of Kallum by reputation only. You don’t work in my field without stumbling across the major contributors to the hidden topics of the world. The fact Kallum was a highly regarded philosophy scholar hid him well within academia.

It wasn’t until Kallum was taken away to Briar that I really began to dig. I interviewed previous colleagues and contacted ex-romantic partners. One of Kallum’s assistant professors stated Kallum’s alchemic research bordered on obsessive, as evident in the runes and sigils tattooed on his body. A previous lover witnessed his fixation with the dark arts, his often “unsettling” research reaching as far as their bedroom.

I scoured the web for all mentions of him. I avoided active cases in pursuit of the truth, which nearly cost me my career, but what I unearthed was a disturbing history of violence and deviant behavior.

As Kallum touts, I may never uncover the physical evidence of the Cambridge murder. I’ve learned to accept this fact. That case is closed. If not for the personal nature of the murder, Kallum may have never been caught.

Initially, I was of the mindset that the Cambridge murder was a crime of passion that Kallum then attempted to disguise as a Harbinger copycat killing. At the time, the murders were all over the media. It was a sound theory.

However, once Kallum was locked away, a curious thing happened.

The Harbinger killings stopped.

Kallum Locke is far more sinister and unhinged than a one-time crime of passion killer, and I now have the chance to prove it—to comb through the dark chasm of his mind and uncover his connection to the killings.

The devil is in the details, and the details are inside that devil’s head.

And I’m about to throw the doors of hell wide open to let him roam free.

The literal door before me opens, and I straighten my shoulders. “Dr. Torres.” I address Briar’s head psychiatrist as he grants me entry to his office.

“Miss St. James. It’s a pleasure to have you. Please, be seated.”

The office of the man in charge of a ward for the criminally insane doesn’t look how I visualized: with textured gray walls, cherry oak furniture, and framed pictures of Freud. I even presumed there’d be a trace of cigar smoke in the air.

Dr. Torres has published three papers on the treatment and correction of dangerous offenders with mental disorders, he’s highly regarded in the medical community for his innovative methods, and his office is a wreck.

Pages are strewn across the desk and falling to the floor. Folders lie open and article clippings pepper every available surface. There’s even a half-eaten club sandwich hanging out in a parted Styrofoam container on a bookshelf.

He, himself, is not quite put together, either, with crooked wireframe glasses, a mop of messy, thinning gray hair, and a half untucked Polo button-down.

And the office smells like cheese.

I glance around for a seat, and he waves a hand apologetically before he clears clutter away from one of the leather chairs in front of his basic wood desk.

“Please excuse the mess,” he says, offering me a seat again. “I’d like to say this is rare, but I find I’m always occupied with a task and in a state of disarray.”

I smile. It really doesn’t bother me…for a short period, knowing I’ll soon leave. I grew up with an ADHD mother who sprinted from one hobby to the next, like she did with occupations, always leaving a chaotic mess in her wake. But her chaos was often the result of a selfless love, and that was the trade.

The surfacing memory weighs heavily on my chest.

“No worries at all.” I set my canvas bag on the only clear space on the floor. “All genius comes with a dash of madness, so they say.”

He chuckles as he seats himself in his desk chair, flipping his askew tie around. “Yes, so they say.”

“Hence why you’re the leading authority in the treatment of the criminally insane.”

He cocks his head, a suspicious gleam in his narrowed, faded-brown eyes. Dr. Torres might appear distracted and dull-witted, but he’s earned his reputation for a reason. He’s no fool, and apparently, ego-stroking won’t win him over.

“You came here to visit my patient, Kallum Locke,” he says, diving right in. “I typically require a psychiatric technician to be present when law officials want to conduct an interview with a patient—”

“I’m not a law official,” I say, clearing that right up.

“Which is the reason as to why I waved the rule…this time.” He makes sure to stress this last part.

My smile falls. “Which I appreciate, but I wasn’t conducting an interview.”

Dr. Torres regards me closely. “Then what can I help you with, Miss St. James?”

Straight to the point. “I work for a specialized department of investigation, and Kallum may be of use to us on an active case.”

My comment seems to amuse him, as he steeples his fingers together and flashes a smile. “Kallum won’t be of any use to you.”

“Why is that? Because of his mental state?”

“No, because you’re the reason he’s here, Miss. St. James.” He grabs a pen off his desk and shuffles to locate a leaf of paper. “In my opinion, it would be a stretch to trust Kallum would help anyone in authority, but especially you and your division. He may lead you on some entertaining tangent, but he has no desire to see justice served.”