“You can’t leave,” he says, his tone taking on a serious edge. “You can’t be alone. It’s not safe, Halen.”

“I haven’t been safe since the moment you entered my world.” I snatch my arm free, severing his connection.

Weighing his next words, Kallum slides his tongue over his teeth. “Don’t you want my theory on the crime scene?”

Like baiting a worm on a hook, Kallum dangles the lure before me. For all my efforts to study the acclaimed Professor Locke, he was the one learning how I tick, how to maneuver me.

Kallum is a sociopath who needs to control the narrative. Anything he offers will be to his benefit. But even Kallum is capable of making a mistake. One way to catch a lying sociopath is to let them talk.

“Enlighten me, professor,” I say.

“With pleasure.” A grin hooks the corner of his mouth before he casts a look over the marsh. “There is no such thing as an original idea,” he says, already veering off on a tangent I know will make my head hurt. “Even the master philosophers wove their doctrines from previous concepts. One in particular—” he points to the inked script on his forearm “—Heraclitus. I find it interesting that line in particular called out to you. As if the universe was trying to offer you a clue.”

“The universe? Or a clever philosophy scholar twisting things to his advantage?”

He chuckles. “You really do have trust issues.”

“I wonder why.”

A tense beat thrums the air between us as we stay locked in each other’s stare.

“Though there was only ever one written dogma,” Kallum says, pushing his agenda, “of which nothing remains except in the teachings of Heraclitus’s successors, his core belief in flux was universally accepted.”

I feel myself being drawn in, the quicksand funneling in around me. “I’m too exhausted for existential meanderings,” I say, expelling a sigh. “Just…explain.”

He crosses his arms with a satisfied smirk. “Heraclitus expounded on flux by stating opposites coincide. He was a philosopher Nietzsche openly respected, I suspect, because he declared Dionysus was lord, and they both enjoy their paradoxes. Opposites attract and all that.” He winks at me. “So then, we have to make an educated guess that Nietzsche’s own path to self-deification was constructed from his teachings. Which means your actual suspect is on the same course. They’re seeking unity in their opposite.”

Through his whole spiel, what I latched on to was: “Opposites attract.” I nod tersely. “The duality, right? Apollonian and Dionysian.”

We are the duality.

Kallum’s gaze flares, a hunger banked in the depths of his clashing gaze. “Plato believed we all have a twin soul, that we’re all just here on this planet searching for our other half.”

I hold up a hand, stopping him. “One riddle at a time.”

“Your suspect hasn’t completed the ascension because he’s searching too, and in fact realized he needs this opposite side of himself in order to fully ascend.” His expression turns pensive. “No one likes to be alone.”

I swallow against the forming ache in my throat. “You seem to have a disturbing fixation with that particular theory, Professor Locke.”

“You have no idea,” he says, his voice a low rumble.

The intensity of the moment strains my defenses, and I’m the one to look away.

“But what I appreciate most,” Kallum says, his tone turning seductive, “is Heraclitus’s theory on the fire of the soul, how the mastery of our desires purifies us.” His fingers trace the side of my palm to pull my attention back on him. His gaze heats as he stares into me. “I can think of at least three different ways we can master our desires right now and save our damned souls, sweetness.”

My heart pounds in my chest. “Go to hell, Kallum.”

His smile is wicked. “Obligingly. But only with you by my side, angel.”

A hot coil of irritation twists my nerves. “None of what you said pertains to that scene.” I point toward the marsh. “Where does the Harbinger killer fit in to your deduction?” I challenge him.

Kallum runs a bandaged hand through his dark hair. “You’re always looking too closely to truly see,” he says. “Is it more likely the Harbinger killer needed a scapegoat, or the Overman?”

I fold an arm over my midsection, a cramp twinging my stomach. “I don’t understand. What does scapegoating have to do with the murder?”

He moves closer. Too close, forcing my head to tip back. “We need to talk about this in private.”

A breathless laugh slips free. “Of course we do.”

As Alister turns his attention on us, he releases a curt breath. “Whatever the issue is, drop it.” He steps between me and Kallum and crosses his arms. “With two psychotic killers in this town, we’re working together and pooling resources to recover the victims alive.”

I lift my chin, remaining silent as Alister moves in closer to me and drops his voice. “I meant what I said before. I’d like it if we could work closely on this.”

I lock my frame in a defiant stance. “Yes. I remember exactly what you said, Agent Alister.” Stepping around him, I add, “My initial observations have been given to the local department to share with the task force. You can request all my reports from Detective Riddick.”

Tension arcs through the boggy air. I sense the volatile shift in tide as Kallum first gauges me curiously, then traps Alister in a fierce glare. “Did I miss something important here?”

Alister ignores Kallum outright. “I’m not disputing the locals keeping you on the case, St. James. But that means you still answer to the task force that has jurisdiction. Which means, you answer to me.”

The weariness creeping into my bones steals some of my indignation. I chew back my retort. “Understood, sir.”

Alister’s mouth thins and a muscle twitches in his jaw. “What I need to know is if there are any marked differences between the Harbinger scene here and the others you’ve worked. Any deviating details.”

Despite my tunnel vision on Kallum and my desire to put Alister in his place for the lewd and degrading pass he made at me the day before, I’m still a professional. And there’s still a victim that deserves justice, along with thirty-two other missing victims who need to be recovered.

Glancing over my shoulder, I try to see the crime scene through a fresh lens. The intricate weaving of yarn to create a web where thirty-three partial tongues are displayed like shriveled trophies. Erected central to the first scene is the headless body of the victim—the decapitated head placed near the feet.

Since I arrived on site, I’ve been detangling the two scenes from each other. Teasing apart the knotted details. One a sacrificial offering made by the Overman, and the second the victim of the Harbinger.

The task force has escalated the Harbinger case to priority.

They put roadblocks up around the perimeter of town, checking all vehicles coming and going. In the letter discovered on the body, the Harbinger made a threat to the victims. He specifically called out the Overman, threatening to take out every “higher man” until the Overman “shows his face”.

I look at Kallum, again questioning just what the letter means, if it means anything at all, or if it’s only meant to derail the investigation.

The logical choice is to focus all efforts on first capturing the Harbinger. I support this. Because, while there is another threat to the victims, the fact is, the Harbinger has proven he can locate them.

And, according to the time of death of the victim here, he can locate them alive.

Relaxing the tightly threaded muscles around my spine, I take a fortifying breath and say, “Besides the fact that this is the first time the Harbinger has invaded another scene, the most obvious deviance from the other Harbinger cases is the antlers on the victim. The letter from the Harbinger was vague. I can’t glean his intent, his motive. Yet,” I add, directing a stern glare at Kallum, “it’s only a matter of time. The Harbinger was rushed. If there was a mistake made, we’ll uncover it.”