I curb my smile. “You put me away for six months. I had ample time to research myself.”
“What is it that you’re dying to tell me that you think I don’t know, Kallum.”
I wet my lips and take a step in her direction. “The moth is attracted to sweet things.” My gaze drags over her as I inhale a deep breath to pull her into my lungs. “It loves sweet things.”
She says nothing, but I notice the way her swallow travels along her throat.
“They can mimic a honeybee to invade hives undetected. As they imitate the scent of the bees, they blend right in, and if they’re discovered, the moth has this thick epidermis to protect it from stings.” I let the sounds of the marsh fill the silence before I say, “It’s got damn thick skin to shelter itself from pain.”
“And the moth is nocturnal. Rarely seen because it appears late at night. It chirps if irritated, and likes to lay eggs in nightshade.” She adjusts her hold on her bag handle and exhales. “What is your point with all this?”
“Just that I find it interesting, little Halen, that you’re far more connected to the moth than me in attributes.”
Her gaze tapers further. “I never know whether you’re trying to tell me something, or derail me off a lead.”
I glance back in the direction of the ravine. “You picked up on something back there,” I say.
“You’re way too attuned to me,” she accuses. “You should be focused on the case.”
“Now who’s derailing?”
Blatantly ignoring my remark, she starts in the direction out of the marsh again. “If the offender is using the Harbinger to his advantage, then yes, I’ve considered he’s had to research the case, to learn what I know. And in doing so, the Harbinger could become a part of the Overman’s delusion, even a part of his path to ascension.”
A full smile tugs at my mouth. “I should really stop mocking psychology,” I say, peeking over at her. But it’s not psychology or profiling or anything else—it’s her. She’s the seer. “If the offender believes what you do and thinks I’m the actual killer, that makes me a bad omen for the Overman. You really should use me to your advantage.”
She expels a breath. “This whole town is a bad omen. You’re just one more evil thing.”
“That’s a bit scary then,” I say. At the divot forming in her quizzical expression, I add, “That I might be the only one here you can trust, sweetness.”
We walk in silence through the marsh, and I feel the press of Halen’s deep thoughts. Before we reach the path to lead us to where the black SUV waits, Halen turns her gaze on me. “For the record, you bear more attributes to the moth than me, Kallum.”
“Hmm. I do love sweet things.” I send her a wink.
OceanofPDF.com
9
OceanofPDF.com
EKSTASIS
OceanofPDF.com
HALEN
Everything has an anatomy. Humans have this inherent need to break down even the most mundane objects in order to explain their existence. For instance, the empty space between the flame and wick on a candle is called the dark zone. The void that draws the eye despite the luminous flame.
I think it’s in our nature to seek out the darkest aspect. Our desire to fill that negative space.
Or maybe it’s our primitive warning system; the beautiful, dancing flicker will burn if we get too close.
In defiant challenge, I swipe my finger through the candle flame. The water on my hand from wringing my wet hair sizzles in the fire.
After the storm knocked out the power to the hotel, Iris provided candles to all the patrons. I heard more than a few groans in the lobby from media crews who need to charge their equipment.
Pulling my freshly washed hair over my shoulder, I seat myself on the corner of the bed and slip the unneeded sanitary napkin into my bag. My flow was light, and has since nearly stopped. The more I think about what Dr. Floris said, about how hormones and stress can cause bleeding, the more logical it becomes that I simply experienced a temporary upset to my system.
Now, I need a logical answer for what occurred during the ritual, for why I have two sets of memories. There is always a rational explanation for the unexplained. This is at the very core of what I do.
I eye the laptop on the console table, then look at the boxes lined along the wall. Aubrey had my case files delivered to a storage unit I’ve temporarily rented. I have a copy of the Harbinger case on a zip file, but what couldn’t be stored in 1s and 0s, I’ve brought to the hotel.
I didn’t expect CrimeTech to release my files so quickly, but as the news is buzzing with the newest Harbinger murder, they likely don’t want to deal with the feds. Not because it’s the right thing to do.
I sink down to the floor and pull a plastic file box toward me. Using the soft candlelight, I dig through the contents until I unearth my old cellphone.
An anxious flutter wings to life in my chest. I’ve listened to the recording so many times I have it memorized. That’s why when Kallum told me to listen to our first encounter again, I didn’t feel the need—there would be nothing new gleaned.
There’s just enough juice left to power on the device. Like scratching open a healed over wound, I hit Play on the audio file, and Kallum’s gravelly voice slinks over my skin.
“You’re an intriguing little thing.”
Just like all those months ago, the fine hairs along my nape lift away.
I listen to the back and forth as he asks me random questions about my job. Then: “Are you afraid of me?”
I push Pause.
I’ve now spent enough time with Kallum to know how he likes to intimidate. He uses his striking looks, his intelligence, even fear to deter people. And that’s exactly what I assumed he was doing in this moment when he asked me such a jarring question.
As I resume the recording, I hear myself blame the New England weather for my trembling. Then he comments on how he sees me, drifting below radar, trying to be unseen.
“…here you are, the only one with actual, impressive credentials, the only one who can piece together what happened here, and you haven’t spoken a word.”
I can feel him, so close, the way he was that day. Breathing me in. His arctic gaze penetrating me and rattling my defenses.
“I’d like to know what thoughts you keep silent, what you’re so worried might slip past those trembling lips.”
I hit Stop.
A shiver racks my muscles, and I rub my forearm to chase away the chill. My fingers trace the scars beneath my long-sleeved shirt, the accident never far from my thoughts.
Placing our conversation in another context, of course I can hear an alternative meaning in his words. There’s a million different ways to perceive his obscure comments. That’s how Kallum operates.
Candlelight bounces along the walls, casting creepy shadows over the room as rain patters the window. I remember being so afraid of the dark when I was little, my mother soothingly explaining the monsters I saw in the dark corners were just my imagination.
I can’t recall the color of her shirt when she told me this, or how she wore her hair, but I remember the scent of her apricot lotion, and that memory soothes me now as it did then.
Psychology spends a lot of time on memory.
The truth is, nobody remembers their past accurately. That’s why people argue and fight with friends, children, spouses. One person recalls a matter happening one way, the other a completely different way.
They’re both right.
And wrong.
It’s a scary thought that you can’t trust your own past.
