As the mind wasn’t meant to hold on to every memory, it’s the most damaging ones our brains will obsess over, never letting us forget. Those painful memories define and shape our existence. Then there are the memories so shattering the psyche has to purge them or risk being damaged beyond repair. It’s a defense mechanism.

The mind constructs and alters memories to protect us.

And Kallum understands all this. He knows how to twist and manipulate to make me question the fabric of my reality. That’s why I’m sitting on my room floor, listening to our conversation and questioning my own mind.

I reach for my case and remove the camera. I flip through the images from the ravine, numb at the sight of animal mutilation. Years of analyzing the basest depravity of human nature has desensitized a vast area of my empathy. I stop flipping when the image of Kallum crystalizes on the small screen.

While studying this case, I came across a line from Nietzsche that resonated with me: “There are no beautiful surfaces without a terrible depth.”

I don’t pretend to understand philosophy. I don’t even very much like it. But what is captured in this photo is the reason why we strive beyond our limited capacity to grasp a higher, more profound understanding of our existence.

There is a terrible depth behind Kallum’s beauty, a thick tar adhering to his soul, an agonizing darkness that stains his mind. In this blink of a moment where his truth was captured, we are the same. We are bound by our tragic suffering.

Maybe that’s all I need to understand.

“Dammit.” I tuck the camera away, then drop the phone in the box and seal the lid.

I’m falling apart.

No matter how I try to fend Kallum off, he slips right past every one of my defenses. When he looks at me, he looks into me. He sees me in a way no one else ever has, and it’s intoxicating, to really be seen.

All my memories of Jackson and I together are sealed tight, tucked away in a box like my old case files. Safely kept out of sight. Every once in a while, I’m tempted to pry the lid and take one out, but I don’t. I can’t. Because as long as he’s there, with that version of me, then it all can remain untouched, unblemished.

My life with him wasn’t perfect, but it was safe. There was love and trust and happiness.

Uncomplicated.

Until it wasn’t.

I’m not sure if I was ever really that version of myself…or, like the beauty only viewed on the surface, the truth of me was just submerged in the dark, terrible depth.

To that end, Kallum challenges me.

There is something unsettling twisting my bones, gnarling me like the eerie marsh trees whenever he’s near. The yearning to tear through his clothes and be skin-to-skin with him is a disease infecting my soul. I fear that loss of control over my mind…my body.

I glance at the broken chain lock hanging from the frame of the connecting door that opens to Kallum’s room. The one he broke when he shouldered the door open while I was dead to the world with sleep deprivation.

God, and he wants me to trust him.

How can I trust the devil who takes advantage of me at every opportunity with an evil glint in his beautiful, deceptive eyes and lethal smile. His whole persona pulls you in, disarms you, until you realize too late you’re tangled in his web.

I felt the gauzy threads ensnaring me last night as he gazed at me through the falling rain, his distressed expression so convincing as he pleaded for me to believe him.

I don’t know whether or not I’m in danger from this town—but I was in danger that first day when Kallum approached me, when he baited and ensnared me in his trap.

And I was in danger today at the ravine, when it became so effortless with him, it was as easy as breathing.

Falling for a man who I can never trust…

That is the real danger.

My phone vibrates on the desk, mercifully distracting me from my spiraling thoughts. I grab the device and note the name on the screen.

“Mr. Wheeler,” I say, my surprise at his call overriding basic etiquette. “Hello. How can I help you?”

“Miss St. James, I’m glad you answered. Have you had a chance to check your email yet?”

On reflex, I glance at my laptop. “Not yet. It’s been very hectic on the current case.”

“I’ve seen the news.” His tone is commiserating. “Look, I won’t take up much of your time, but I did want to touch base with you on the file you requested.”

Kallum’s juvenile file.

My heart lurches to my throat. “Right, yes. Thank you. Has there been any progress?”

I get to the laptop and wake the screen, impatience clawing at my nerves as I wait for the Wi-Fi to connect—only to remember the power is out. “Shit,” I hiss.

“Is everything all right?”

“We’ve had storms here. There’s a power outage.” As I sling my wet hair over my shoulder, a low rumble of thunder sounds to further my claim. “I can check my phone email once we end the call.”

“I don’t want to get your hopes up,” he says. “I haven’t been able to get access to the juvi file, but what I was able to uncover might be of interest to you. There’s a buried incident report on the deceased father, Malcolm Locke. He was hospitalized right around the time the juvenile report was dated. It might have no bearing, but I felt it was worth mentioning for your own investigative purposes.” A lengthy silence fills the line before he says, “Even obtaining access to this information was difficult.”

The way he says access makes me believe the information wasn’t acquired legally.

“I truly appreciate your persistence on this matter,” I say.

“Sure. It’s not much, I should add. Apparently, the Locke family has enough money to keep their secrets buried and sealed tight.”

I huff a derisive breath. “I’m aware of that. I’ve been trying to contact Mrs. Locke for months. She lives outside the country, and won’t respond to any requests.”

“Mothers can be…challenging,” he says, as if speaking from experience. “I’ll keep working on Judge Carter to grant access to the file and keep you apprised. Good luck on your case.”

“Again, I appreciate it. Thank you, Mr. Wheeler,” I say, then end the call.

There’s a weighted moment where I stare at the phone screen, hesitant to open the email.

Over the course of the past six months, I’d formed firm opinions on the bad boy of academia. I can admit I was obsessed with proving him to be a killer, smugly hiding in plain sight, confident he’d never be caught as he mocked those he thought less intelligent. Which, when it comes to Kallum, happens to be everyone.

My thumb hovers over the paperclip attachment as I scan the lines of the email where one sentence stands out.

…patient suffered damage to the oculus…

I lower the phone and stare at the flickering flame of the candle, looking into the dark zone.

Once I open that file, I can never unknow this about Kallum. Right now, it’s a vague suggestion, a speculation.

I don’t have to ask the question of whether or not Kallum is capable of such an offense. As a teen, he was diagnosed with brief psychotic disorder with violent tendencies. The more terrifying question is: will knowing the truth change how I feel about him?

The answer whispers from the darkest recesses of my soul. Like fine parchment going up in flame, my resolve burns to ash.

I delete the email.

Rain raps against the window, the storm increasing in strength, and I feel the emptiness of the room swallow me.

Leaving my phone on the table, I step toward the door. I touch the broken chain, my chest aflame at the feel of his presence I can sense just on the other side of the wood. Some desperation coils my viscera in a tight knot, and I let the chain drop.

I give the chair a single glance as I pass it by, then blow out the candle.