The kernel of guilt I register in her eyes gives her away. Halen gave them the evidence from the ritual. She doesn’t need to say it; the way she tugs at her bottom lip confirms this.
I sit back and lace my hands behind my head, getting comfortable. “Well, if it is someone who has access to the lab, then there’s an abundance of my DNA at their disposal.”
That carving knife should be turning up soon.
“I won’t let that happen,” Halen says, tone resolute.
I tilt my head, for the first damn time at a loss for words. Little Halen, defending her devil. I think hell just froze over.
My dismal smile feels genuine. “I’m not worried for myself, sweetness.”
She tears her gaze away from mine in the window.
Regardless of who the perpetrator is or their access level, I won’t be roaming free for long. As I’ve likely been painted as the sorcerer from the allegory, I’m a threat to the Overman. But instead of the threat of turning the higher men against Zarathustra like in the parable, I’m a threat to turn Halen against the suspect. This person wants her to mistrust me so they can isolate her.
This person is also persistent. They have endless patience and years of practice trying to obtain an ancient philosophy.
And failing.
A whole ravine filled with their decaying efforts.
Then little Halen arrives, all pure grief and heightened emotions, her beautiful suffering a siren’s song to the Rausch. Utterly transcendent ecstasy.
I should know—I experienced her divinity for myself.
The Overman wants her. I’m an obstacle in the way.
Too bad for them, my obsession runs so much deeper.
Agent Hernandez steers the SUV into the parking lot of the police department, making Halen glance up from her phone. “Why are we here?”
The agent expels a breath, weary of his chauffeur duty. “The press conference.”
“Shit,” Halen mutters. “I forgot about that.”
“Agent Alister said to remind you not to make a scene.” Hernandez parks the vehicle, then sends her a measured look in warning. “You don’t have to answer any questions.”
“Did he give you the same order for me?” I say.
He directs a glance to the backseat, delivering his best intimidating agent face. “He said to keep the sociopath contained.”
My smile doesn’t meet my hard eyes. “Duly noted.”
Halen pulls her hair over her shoulder and works the thick hank into a braid, securing the end with her hairband. “Let’s get this over with.”
I trail behind Halen as she weaves between news vans and police cruisers toward the building. At the entrance, I reach over her shoulder and take hold of the handle, trapping her between my body and the glass door. “You can’t avoid what happened last night forever,” I whisper near her ear.
She places her hand right over mine and pulls the door open. “Oh, but I will try.”
A derisive smile curls my lips. Avoidance is a weak tactic when our defenses fracture.
My little Halen is cracking.
The sound of muffled voices guides us toward the double doors of the conference room. Halen slips through quietly, trying to be unnoticed as she locates a place along the back wall.
Agent Alister is seated on a metal chair at the front of the room, accompanied by two of his lead agents, and Detective Riddick to represent the local department, presenting a joint effort on the case for the media.
The room is congested with too many bodies. The muggy press of body heat requires the window fans to run at full blast. The whip of blades blends with the shutter click of digital cameras.
Even from the far back, I see the sad, despondent faces peppered throughout the crowd. The red, teary eyes. The wisp of hope on trembling lips posed for the cameras. The exaggerated sniffles and whimpers staged for the soundbites.
The sight pulls at some dark thread within me, and a plume of resentment wafts up like the noxious fumes from the ravine.
What Hernandez said in the SUV circles my thoughts as I absorb the saturated stench of the conference room.
Here’s the thing: sociopathy and shallow affect are not a recipe for sinister nature. The melodramatic fucks who weep uncontrollably are the more troubling concern. Behind closed doors, their empathetic feelings suddenly disappear. Poof. All a show to garner sympathy for selfish reasons.
Those people are far more dangerous than your average sociopath.
I might not shed a tear at your funeral, but that’s because I understand we're born to die. This is a purpose, the only purpose, we all share. What's the use in mourning an inevitable outcome? To be saddened by this is ridiculous, and frankly, contrived.
Maybe that in itself makes me a sociopath. I can’t be bothered by the labels.
But I'm also not the one who’s going to use your death as an online funding program so I can buy a ticket for a cruise.
A high-pitched screech of feedback emits from the speakers, and Alister taps the microphone. Once he concludes the task force updates, he opens up the room for questions from the press.
A journalist in the front row kicks off the show. “Special Agent Alister, it’s been rumored that the criminologist who was attacked at one of the crime scenes was fired. Can you confirm this?”
Next to me, Halen bristles with unease. Alister looks even less inclined to allow this line of questioning, but he delivers a direct statement. “Dr. St. James was released from her position at CrimeTech for reasons unknown to the FBI.”
The same journalist follows up. “But Dr. St. James is still working the case, is this correct?”
Alister rubs the back of his neck before he answers, first glancing at Detective Riddick. “The local department has retained her expert services as a consultant.”
Another hand goes up, and Alister calls on the reporter. “Is Dr. St. James here to answer questions regarding the attack?”
I dip my head near Halen. “You’re legendary, sweetness.”
“I signed a nondisclosure agreement,” she whispers.
“So don’t disclose anything.”
She releases an annoyed breath. “I’m not as practiced as some in the art of cryptic obscurity.”
I cover my mouth with my hand to conceal a smirk.
Alister tries to deflect the question. “The details of the attack on Dr. St. James are confidential at the moment.” He points to a reporter to move the questions along.
This young, eager reporter goes right to the source. He turns toward the back of the room and singles out Halen. “Dr. St. James, was the man who attacked you into occult practices?”
She looks around as all eyes fall on her. “I apologize, but I’m unable to answer questions about the attack or my attacker.”
Her rebuff doesn’t deter the reporter. “Can you speak up, please? Also, can you offer any insight into what you and your partner have discovered about the perpetrators of the crimes?”
Halen pushes off the block wall and tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “For the record, Professor Locke and I are not partners,” she corrects.
“But you are working closely together?”
She glances back at me, and I arch an eyebrow. “We’re both working as tirelessly as all the professionals are on this case,” she answers. “It’s a team effort.”
“Very diplomatic,” I say in a low tone.
Another reporter stands, bypassing Agent Alister to speak to Halen. “Dr. St. James, were you brought on by the local department because of the previous Harbinger killer cases you’ve worked?”
She hesitates, then: “I was already on-site, so it was a matter of convenience to acquire my services. The task force requires all the resources it can get.”
“Are the limited resources the reason why the FBI hasn’t been able to apprehend the perpetrators?”
Halen blinks against the rapid-fire camera flashes. “No, that’s not—”
“What can you tell us about the Harbinger crime scene? Is this the same killer?”
