At this time, there are still no leads on the whereabouts of the remaining missing thirty-two residents.
As the details of the report seep past the murky fog swathing my head, a red layer of fury covers my vision. I can feel Halen’s staccato heartbeat flare in my veins.
Leroy Landry—the horned man who attacked Halen and I at the killing fields ritual ground—was not the Overman. Which means, the actual suspect is still roaming the town. And now it seems the Harbinger killer has descended on Hollow’s Row to tear an apocalyptic-sized seam right down the center.
The connections sync faster than my dulled brain can process.
Halen’s in danger.
“Fucking psychos.” The agent behind the steering wheel mutters to himself as he lowers the volume on the SUV stereo. He scans radio stations until he settles on a poppy 80s song.
The bass-filled music grates abrasively against my senses, scraping my already worn patience thin. The dull ache at my temples increases as my mind races.
“Why don’t you call your superior to get an update on the psychos?” I tell him, jaw tensed around each word.
Flicking his gaze to the rearview mirror, Special Agent Hernandez regards me like I’m one of said psychos and sputters an annoyed breath. “Not any of your business anymore, is it?”
As he leisurely refocuses on the drive to the institute, I fist my bandaged hands in an attempt to curb the impulse to reach over the seat back and strangle him with my handcuffs.
A bad idea, for one: wrecking the vehicle would not get me back to Halen any quicker.
And two: the only person in a position to validate my return to the case happens to reside at Briar.
Impulse control. I have a dire issue there. But the dark fury simmering beneath my skin is all but cooking me alive.
I imagine Halen listening to the same report while she flees the town and her fears of us. My pretty little liar led me to believe she was resuming her place on the task force, when really, she’d been dismissed from her position within her company. I got that much out of the agent aboard the flight.
The lingering burn of her spicy curry imbues an ache in my chest. Even at this distance apart, if I block out everything but her, I can feel the churning vortex of her emotions, the distress tearing at her mind.
Her obsession with the Harbinger killer will find a way to return her to that town. I have no doubt she’s already aware of the newest murder, and that she’s also already angling to prove I did it.
I can’t help the smile that steals across my face. This gives me a thrilling satisfaction, knowing she can’t rid me from her thoughts so easily.
She called me a sociopath, a leech who fed off her emotions. I don’t deny her claim. I’ve burrowed in deep. I may be the bloodsucking parasite greedy to glut myself on her—but there is now something far more sinister out there vying to feed off her.
Dividing us was the wrong choice.
“We’re here,” Hernandez announces, as if I’m a five-year-old who needs mollifying.
“My anticipation is killer.”
His faded-brown eyes find mine in the mirror. “That hot little criminologist you worked with…the one you kissed…” he says, and suddenly he has my full fucking attention.
“Dr. St. James,” I say, helping him along. Jaw tensed, I throttle the urge to further correct him in the most furious reprimand.
Since my last moments with her, my fuse has been cut to the wick.
“Right.” He pulls alongside the curb beneath the covered drop-off area of the facility. “Did she really strip herself naked and let you put your bloody hands all over her?”
The vision of Halen adorned in bones and my blood stirs a visceral heat beneath my skin.
Hernandez is dangerously close to losing his tongue.
The FBI rumor mill is likely buzzing. An unwanted flash of Agent Alister makes it past the dulled haze. He has an unhealthy interest in Halen, and I can only speculate as to what he’s said to her behind closed doors. I’m not sure my threat to him was made clear enough.
I lock eyes with the agent in the rearview mirror, letting my facial features harden in their natural state. He visibly recoils. “What’s your point?” I demand.
“She’s back on the case,” he says. “Thought you might like to know.” He unbuckles his seatbelt and pulls the handle to open the door.
A roar fills my ears, and I momentarily forget I’m handcuffed as I move to prevent him from leaving the car. The chain linked to my cuffed ankles snaps taut, holding me back. The agent notices.
“How do you know for sure Dr. St. James is working the case?” I demand.
He slides his holstered gun forward on his chest, reminding me that he’s armed. “Agent Alister,” he says, confirming my suspicions. “The locals hired her on as a consultant to the task force.”
A twisted smirk pulls at the corner of my mouth. I know exactly what local made that happen. I also know that Halen owes her a number of favors, so there was little chance Halen would turn down a request from Devyn Childs to stay on as a consultant.
“Lead the way,” I tell the agent.
Once he has me escorted to processing, I go through the tedious protocol to be readmitted into the hospital.
“Don’t go far,” I tell Agent Hernandez as he removes my shackles.
He huffs a humorous breath, discounting that I will be right back in his SUV and on my way to Halen shortly.
I’m only given a moment of freedom before a hospital psych tech has my ankles and wrists cuffed once again. Ironically, I’ve never laid a hand on anyone in this facility, but the stench of fear permeates the air just the same.
The anticipation for the strike is always more fear-inducing than the strike itself.
I’m led to the office of Dr. Torres, and proof of that fearful suspense is etched into the doctor’s worn features. Seated behind his cluttered desk, Dr. Torres regards me with equal parts disdain and trepidation.
His office is in worse condition than before I left. “I love what you’ve done here,” I say, flicking my gaze to a moldy sandwich displayed on his bookcase. Fittingly, positioned right between Freud and Jung. I cock an eyebrow. “An offering to your gods?”
“Don’t get comfortable, Professor Locke,” Torres says, and I’m pleased he still has the mental capacity to address me professionally. “This session is just a pitstop before you’re transferred to California.”
I gift him my brilliant, devilish smile. “Then I’d say an induction evaluation really isn’t necessary.”
He straightens his askew tie. “This is your departure evaluation.” He’s way too excited to correct me as he flips open a manila folder. “Have a seat.”
The psych tech removes the taupe rug in front of the leather chair to reveal a manacle bolted into the tiled floor. After I’m seated, he proceeds to latch the chain between my ankles to the locking apparatus.
I test the restraint.
“The case study is almost complete,” Dr. Torres announces. He’s nearly quivering with eagerness. “I just need to evaluate how the case affected your mental state, then you’ll be someone else’s problem.”
See, in the end, the drive for our passions always outweighs our fear and even our commonsense. Dr. Torres has taken great strides toward his accomplishments. He believes my mind is the gateway to his discovery and, ultimately, his acclaim.
Had I been introduced to Dr. Torres before I found my muse, I would have despised him with relentless envy for the simple fact he is so driven by his passion. As we sit here now, I have to actively try not to pity him.
My restraints are checked and doublechecked before Dr. Torres instructs the tech to leave the office. I let my gaze settle on the very driven man behind his messy desk.
Buzzing with anticipation, Torres reaches a trembling hand toward a fountain pen. “Let’s begin with Dr. Verlice’s field report.”
