“I second that,” I say, my gaze not wavering from Halen as she walks toward the table. Still so breathtaking despite her wounded appearance. Rather, with the bruises dusting her face, I find her even more alluring, strong. A bandage wraps her forearm. Her hair spills in loose waves over her shoulders. She carries her tote in one hand, a notebook tucked under her arm.

“I don’t think you should drink while medicated for pain,” Dr. Keller admonishes me with a stern glare.

Halen rests her bandaged hand on the doctor’s seat-back. “He’s not medicated,” she says, holding my gaze. “Professor Locke doesn’t like to dull his senses.”

My smile stretches. My little seer is starting to see right through me. Anticipation to get her alone nearly has me upending this table, but more than ever, the next sequence of events requires patience.

For now, seeing her here, looking into her hazel eyes and knowing there is a next has to be enough.

“Can I get you a drink, Halen?” Rana asks, her address informal.

As Halen carefully eases into a seat, she shakes her head. “Uh, no, but thank you. I am very medicated.”

Hernandez offers Halen a friendly nod as drinks are delivered. Conversation strikes up around the table, a customary tension breaker at the end of the case. My gaze falls to the notebook Halen sets on the table, noting the town name and date. The Harbinger killer’s third crime scene.

After half a beer, Rana lets it slip that Tabitha revealed the bodies of the deceased missing locals were being stored in the diner fridge units until the organs and other parts could be utilized in the ritual offerings.

“Jesus, we ate there,” Hernandez says, expression horrified.

“That was the least appalling thing uncovered,” Rana says. Placing the amber bottle on the table, she picks at the label with a tight frown. “Mrs. Lipton stated that Emmons killed his brother while aware there was a possible treatment for him.”

A tense silence thickens the air at the revelation.

“He had to make an exchange,” I say, my gaze falling on Halen. “A sacrifice isn’t a sacrifice unless it causes you pain. He chose to sacrifice one person he loved to save the other.”

Halen’s glassy eyes fix on me before she swallows and says, “It explains why Emmons was so dejected, becoming increasingly mentally unstable. Killing an innocent person can attribute to that.”

I watch her closely, observing the way she traces her finger over the notebook cover, her speculative thoughts turning inward.

“Murder of any kind can do that,” Hernandez states, his tone gruff, his gaze purposely aimed away from me.

Halen releases a soft sigh. “When I first came here, I swore this town felt evil. But there are only evil acts. Imperfect people using knowledge imperfectly. Intent to protect the person you care for is harmless, until it’s not.”

I lower my glass of bourbon. “You can be a saint, but you still have the potential to be the devil.”

Halen’s gaze flicks up to capture me as I quote Jung for her sake. A measured beat stretches where we stay locked together, the stirring music rising around us, her sweet, addictive melancholy aching within the core of my chest.

“Carl Jung,” Dr. Markus announces, effectively interrupting the moment. “I always took some issue with his doctrines in college.” This garner’s my attention, and I lift an eyebrow. “Now Nietzsche said, ‘Man is the cruelest animal’. Fittingly stated, I think, for this case incorporating his philosophy.”

Smugly, he takes a sip of his drink. Halen tilts her head, eyes flared wide, as if sending me a warning not to engage. How can I resist?

“Christ,” Rana mutters. “I can’t believe I’m looking forward to the next case that doesn’t involve philosophy.”

Unfazed, Dr. Markus barrels forward. “Now I am still curious about the philosophy of the town as a whole. Mrs. Lipton didn’t have the body modifications to indicate she was a part of the society. How many others like her still reside here? It’s impossible to know how many of the residents were involved.”

“In retrospect, Mrs. Lipton’s penchant for parties is very Dionysian.” I grab the knot of my necktie and straighten my spine, earning a little sprite glare from Halen. “I said in retrospect.” I smile, giving her a pop of dimple to distract her, because I know it melts her a little. “And I don’t know, Dr. Markus, the folk music playing around this town might give us some indication as to the level of involvement.”

He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand, Professor Locke.”

“Nietzsche associated folk music with Dionysus, saying every period rich in folk songs has been most violently stirred by Dionysian currents.”

While all eyes slowly shift to the jukebox, Halen’s gaze remains trained on me, a charged current snapping between us. I send her a wink before I glance over at Pal to give him a small nod.

Then I drain the last dregs of my bourbon and set the glass down with finality, having made peace with my disdainful relationship with Nietzsche.

Halen once asked me whether or not I believed the man truly went mad. I can’t claim to have deciphered any shattering insight from his works, but it was there in his personal letters, the ones he sent to his friends, family, colleagues. The coded message of his life, and his quest.

In a letter, the troubled philosopher once wrote: Unless I discover the alchemists’ trick of turning this filth into gold, I am lost.

I do believe Nietzsche sought the philosopher’s stone, and I do believe he lost his mind in the process. In the end, what ultimately drove him past the brink wasn’t his descent into his depths. It was his isolation, his loneliness. If he’d had some sort of touchstone, he might have been able to pull himself out.

That is our human condition, our great wound, our need to be connected. Even the greatest minds suffer this affliction.

A chiming ringtone sounds from a phone, and Halen retrieves the device from her back pocket and taps the screen. “My lift to the airport is here.” With a wan smile, she stands and says her goodbyes. I watch her, spinning my ring, my chest on fire until she turns my way.

“Goodbye, Professor Locke.”

“Safe travels, Dr. St. James.”

As Halen retreats toward the exit, Rana follows after her, stopping her at the door. The agent speaks to Halen in private, setting my senses on alert. With a groan, I reach over and offer my hand to Hernandez.

He looks at it with a raised eyebrow before he accepts the gesture.

“Thoreau said, the language of friendship is not words, but meanings,” I say to him, able to produce a tight-lipped smile. “Actually, I just don’t have shit to say.”

“What-the-fuck ever, that’s a first.” He grips my hand tighter. “You better take care of her, Locke.”

I nod once with sincerity before I turn to my lawyer. “Call my FBI escorts. You can meet me out front.”

Crosby audibly sighs. “About fucking time.”

Passing Rana, I push through the door in chase after Halen, finding her standing with her suitcase on the sidewalk, wearing an expectant expression as she looks straight at me. Then a beautiful smile curls her lips.

I touch my bandaged side, then drive a hand through my hair. “What did Rana say?”

Halen shakes her head. “Nothing important.” The SUV idles behind her, and I swear to god, watching her take that small step toward the vehicle feels like she’s being severed from my sternum.

“Halen, wait⁠—”

She turns my way again. “I will be. For three months.”

I let a smoldering, lopsided smile grace my mouth.

A feverish blush sweeps through her skin as she tucks her notebook under her arm. I look pointedly at the journal before I eat the remaining steps between us and feather the defiant streak of white behind her ear.

History repeats itself. Before I walked off the ritual ground, after Halen began to recover her memory, I told her I’d wait for her. What I didn’t tell her was for how long I’d already been waiting, and that I’d never stop.