I mentally try to connect the pieces of last night with what Hernandez is saying now. I willingly let Devyn take me in the hopes I could somehow help the victims. I’m not sure that’s the outcome, but at least some might get that help.
“And more were found?” As he regards me curiously, I add, “One of the agents said five more were recovered. I’m assuming he was referring to the…victims.” I’m having a difficult time using that word to describe them, the disturbing image of the people I saw last night clashing with that terminology.
Hernandez confirms there have been six of the thirty-two missing locals found. All have been detained at a sequestered wing of the local hospital to undergo medical tests, treatment, and psychological evaluation.
“I should get you back to the hotel,” Hernandez says, turning to lead me through the warren of agents and forensic analysts. “I’ll give you some time to freshen up if needed before I have to bring you in.”
As I follow him out of the library, I ask the obvious question. “Where’s Kallum?”
He doesn’t look back. “Uh… With his lawyer,” he says, distracted by a text on his phone screen. “Trying to get released from holding.”
I detect an edge of strain in his tone, and my inner alarm sounds. Since the moment Agent Hernandez entered the library, I’ve sensed his anxiety. This is a very tense and anxious situation unfolding, yes—but there’s something he’s holding back.
“How are the locals responding to the news of Devyn?” I ask him. She’s one of them, a local. A friend, part of the system that protects them. Feelings of betrayal often present as denial at first, and then anger. Things around Hollow’s Row may become more volatile.
He shakes his head. “I’m not sure,” he replies as he meets another special agent in front of a black SUV and accepts the keys, confirming his vehicle was left at the entrance to the killing fields when the search began.
As Hernandez hasn’t mentioned the stolen carving knife sealed in an evidence bag being discovered in his SUV, I feel safe in trusting it’s still there. I’m torn between my feelings of relief and guilt over that fact. What I don’t feel is wrong for having stolen the weapon Devyn tried to use to frame Kallum. Yet even doing what we inherently believe is right still causes a cognitive dissonance that results in pain.
Kallum said villains have a motive, and that motive is a virtuous one. At least, in the mind of the villain, that reason feels virtuous. What I believe is that there’s a motive for all acts, whether good or bad. I believe Devyn has her own reason.
There is an answer there, one that delves to the heart of the matter.
I see her through the darkness, her eyes flashing with firelight, as our gazes connected in that last moment.
I came here to find the lost people of this town.
What I saw in Devyn’s eyes in that single second reaffirmed my own motive.
Devyn is the lost person I was meant to find.
As the SUV winds through the narrow streets of downtown, bringing us closer to town square, out of habit I search for my phone, only to mutter a curse.
Hernandez glances over at me. Then he reaches into his blazer and produces a device. “Here,” he says, handing me the phone.
Surprised and a little wary, I stare across the interior at him before I accept my phone. “Apparently, I’m a bad influence on you, agent. Subverting procedures?”
“A lot has happened in a short time,” he says, relinquishing a tense breath. “There’s been some changes with the higher ups, and until I know exactly who I’m reporting to, there’s no reason to confiscate your device. What’s said on that recording is private to you, and it’s your choice who knows.”
I clutch the phone, offering him an appreciative smile. Earlier, he said he’d sent a clip to the task force. Hernandez selectively sent a section of the conversation which kept the details of Alister’s attack on me private. “Thank you.”
He nods once, clearing his throat to diffuse the sentiment.
I shift in the passenger seat, and the scratchy material of the sweatshirt rubs over the stitches, snagging on the cotton to isolate my thoughts. I touch my arm, feeling the sloppy needlework of the stitches through the sleeve.
Before we reach our destination, I angle myself toward the agent. “Hernandez,” I say, my tone serious.
He briefly glances over at me. “Gael,” he says, offering his first name.
I smile wanly. “Gael, there’s something amiss here.”
He makes a sound of amusement. “Yeah, there’s a lot amiss here.”
“The locals shouldn’t be working the case. In fact, I think—”
“That Childs isn’t acting alone,” he says, reasoning.
“Yes,” I say simply. “And if I remain on this case, I think we should keep our theories to ourselves for now.”
Devyn couldn’t have done everything on her own. She had to have had someone on the inside helping her. There was too much to access, to monitor and alter in the forensics department, for any one person to oversee.
Then there was over thirty people with semi-to-serious procedures—removal of eyes; partially severed tongues—who needed medical observation. The person who dissected the eyes, who removed the tongues, they’d have to have some kind of medical training and experience. They’d need access to blood clotting agents. Possibly pain medication, more than the wine of their god and ecstasy tinctures for their rituals.
There’s the why Devyn is doing this that needs answered, but also the how.
There is someone else involved.
“Yeah, I agree,” the agent says, not offering anything further as he focuses on the road ahead.
I stare down at my phone, running my thumb over the crack webbing the corner. I light the screen and tap my email icon, feeling oddly out of touch with reality and needing some semblance of my routine.
The email at the top of my app doesn’t offer any solace. I click on the message from Dr. Torres and scan the letter, reading the last sentence of the short missive twice:
There is something imperative you need to know about your charge, Dr. St. James. Contact me right away.
I exhale a breath and dim the screen. “How does he even have access to the Internet,” I mutter to myself. The last I’d heard about the head psychiatrist of the Briar institution, Dr. Torres had been remanded to his own mental hospital after suffering a psychotic episode.
Staring at the darkened phone screen, I feel a sliver of apprehensive curiosity rise up, but I tamp it down just as quickly. Doubt is a dangerous emotion. Whatever Dr. Torres needs to make me aware of about Kallum, it will have to wait. There are only so many delusional people I have time for on my roster today.
I take a long swig of coffee, and as I hold the thermal in my palms, savoring the warmth of the mug, a sudden memory from last night flashes across my vision.
“Shit.” I touch my forehead. “Tabitha. The waitress from the diner.” I look at Hernandez. “She’s the one who handed me the coffee. It was laced with something. She might not be involved directly…but she needs to be questioned.”
My insides buzz at the thought the waitress could know how to locate Devyn.
Hernandez is already pulling out his phone. “I’ll have her picked up for questioning.” But he halts, sending me a guarded look. “Unless we should question her ourselves.”
Taking a moment to think, I glance out the window at the town. I push the tangled layers of my hair over my shoulder, my fingers brushing the sensitized marks from the leather along my neck. “I want to be in on the search for Devyn,” I say, admitting the truth. I want to search for her myself. “My expertise in behavior will be needed if she’s apprehended in a similar state as the victim in town.”
His silence pulls on the threads of unease banding tightly around my chest.
