As footsteps approach from farther down the hallway, Kallum let’s his hand fall away. He takes a step into the corridor, allowing me the chance to fill my aching lungs.

“Noted,” I say.

He releases the door, sending me a wink before it swings closed.

I catch the corner and flatten my palm against the cool surface, dousing some of the heat beneath my skin. “Goddamn him.”

Kallum’s words burrow under my skin as I follow Hernandez outside the building where, once we’re all assembled, it’s decided that Dr. Keller and Kallum will ride with us to the newest scene.

I should be driving my rental out of this town, not cruising down a desolate stretch of road toward the killing fields. Kallum didn’t point that fact out, but his intentional silence was loud.

The internal ticking inside me feels more like a countdown to an implosion than the finality of this case. To divert my anxious thoughts, I pull up my email and scan the reports from Dr. Forrester.

The Bureau’s official lab results state six of the remains’ tissue samples revealed burst cells, denoting the bodies had been preserved via a freezing method. After a reexamination of Jake Emmons, it was confirmed he was alive at the time of his death.

He was murdered.

Devyn told me Jake was already dead, and I made the assumption it was an illness that took his life, not her. I made an assumption, because I didn’t want it to be Devyn who took his life.

A new email pings the top of my inbox, and my stomach pitches as I read the bold words in the subject line.

PROOF

I’ve been here before, staring at an email that could expose a dangerous truth, warring with my feelings on whether or not knowing that truth would change my feelings for Kallum.

Eventually, the enchantment does end.

With a tremor in my hand, I open the email. I skip over Dr. Torres’s ramblings and tap the attachment, my breath held as I wait for an image to load.

A picture of a hospital room materializes. Posters of Nietzsche and Greek philosophers are displayed on the walls. The next image shows a collection of pictures—all of me. One was taken from the first crime scene the very first day I arrived.

Kallum has never denied his obsessive behavior. It would be hypocritical of me to pretend to be disturbed, as I wasn’t necessarily innocent in my fixation with him. There’s a room in my apartment with a wall dedicated to Professor Locke.

My relief is tangible. If this is the extent of Dr. Torres’s claim…

The last attachment loads, and my heart riots against the wall of my chest.

Correspondence transcripts from Briar. I flip down the email log, my heartbeat so loud it muffles all sound around me. My pulse accelerates as my eyes land on one single line contained within an email.

He who sees with his eyes is blind.

I see Kallum standing across the Briar visitation table, his calculating gaze assessing me, his smirk derisive, as he said that very line to me—the line that convinced me I needed him on this case.

As I scan the other two emails, my breath catches on the typed signature.

The Alchemist.

“Son of a bitch,” I whisper beneath my breath.

A thought occurs, and I open my contacts and scroll down, looking for the Briar Institute. The number has been Blocked. I think back to the moment Kallum took my bag in the chamber, giving him the opportunity to access my phone.

The sting of furious tears blurs my vision as I darken my phone screen. I shove the device in my bag, and my nails bite into my palm. I can feel the intense weight of his eyes on me. I’ve felt his eyes on me since we left.

Whether or not forensics can prove it, I know those emails were to Devyn. I have no doubt that Kallum has some measure in place where this won’t come back on him. He’s already conveniently given another suspect the moniker.

There always has to be a scapegoat.

What’s insulting is his assumption that I would never figure it out.

Kallum has to know these emails wouldn’t remain hidden. Every one of Devyn’s accounts are being combed through, analyzed. When she’s arrested, every single piece of evidence that can be brought forward to make a case against her will be crossed in court.

Not if she’s dead.

I wipe a hand down my face, a cold sweat blanketing my skin. I grab hold of the door handle, the thought hitting me so powerfully to escape the vehicle I have to forcefully pry my fingers away.

I barely register Hernandez’s voice as panic crashes through me.

I touch my forearm, desperate to gain a sense of control. Only the coarse feel of stitches drive my anxiety higher. It feels wrong…everything feels wrong.

Kallum has woven himself into me more intricately than this case—every sin, every dark truth, every wicked, salacious feeling—we’re bound together by this sick and twisted world we’ve designed.

As I struggle to pull in a breath around the ache smothering my lungs, I turn to look at Kallum in the backseat, and I’m struck by the disarming beauty of his eyes all over again, falling right over the edge.

The fall is endless.

Those same striking eyes that once pulled me from the depths when I was so lost are now a treacherous void dragging me under.

There are no beautiful surfaces without a terrible depth.

Kallum is that terrible depth.

And I’ve been sinking into him since our first encounter.

I hold Kallum’s knowing gaze until the second I’m forced to shift my focus to the back windshield, to where the vehicle behind us is gaining speed.

It happens suddenly. The sound of crushing metal, the shattering glass. The screams. The soundtrack to my nightmare.

OceanofPDF.com

11

OceanofPDF.com

DOOMED

OceanofPDF.com

KALLUM

Homer wrote: Everything is more beautiful because we are doomed.

We never know if the next moment may be our last. In a matter of a blink, all that we’ve loved, every breath we’ve taken, every memory created can be snatched away by something as ordinary as a tree.

As sound bleeds into the muted chaos, a hazy white gas clouds the interior of the SUV. Past the deployed airbags and cracked windshield, the crushed hood makes the crash a reality.

I blink hard through the wave of dizziness, only giving myself a second to recover before I yank off my seatbelt and lunge toward Halen in the passenger seat.

She’s disoriented but conscious. I roll her face toward me, and her unfocused eyes close and open slowly as I unstrap her from the belt.

“Halen.” Her name feels muffled in my ears, the ringing grows louder as I search her body for injuries. “Come back to me, sweetness.” When she gives me no response, I groan and push past a frantic Dr. Keller and kick the door open.

The vehicle is right-side up but perched on a steep embankment, creaking as though it’s ready to give up its weak grip on the ground. If not for the thick willow, the SUV would be at the bottom of the ridge. The tree wasn’t the culprit for this much damage, however. The blame goes to the testosterone-injected truck that slammed into the backend at full fucking speed.

I wrench the passenger-side door open and pull Halen into my arms, catching sight of Hernandez on the cusp of my periphery. “Get out. Now,” I say to him as he rubs a trail of blood from a cut on his forehead.

The urgency lies not in any fear of engine combustion, but in that same truck currently reversing behind us, gearing up to deliver another hit to send the SUV careening down the embankment.