As I trace her delicate jawline, I let the pad of my thumb taste her lips. “You’ll be there.”

“I’ll be there,” she says, then she disappears into the depths of the SUV.

It’s the connection of the twin flame. Once your other half is found, if divided, it will consume and devour everything in its path like the fires of hell to be reunited.

It’s the course.

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17

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MOTH TO A FLAME

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HALEN

Obsessions die hard.

For the past three months, I’ve been meticulously linking the Harbinger’s victims to Percy Wellington. The connections between the Harbinger killer and his victims weren’t obvious, unless you knew where the first domino toppled, then the rest of the tiles started to fall into place.

It took time to uncover Wellington’s dealings with the victims, but there is always a rational, logical explanation for the unexplained.

The first Harbinger crime scene: Oxford, Maine casino location. The victim was a loan shark who had a reputation to “do away” with his defaulted clients. A deep dive into Wellington’s financials uncovered that he owed the victim a substantial amount of money for a gambling debt.

The second Harbinger crime scene: New Haven, Connecticut recovery center location. The center owner was notorious for extorting patients. During Wellington’s private stint at this facility for his alcohol and gambling addiction, the owner blackmailed Wellington with a threat to ruin his reputation with the university.

The third Harbinger crime scene: Medford, Massachusetts university location. The victim turned out to be a high-end drug dealer Wellington played poker with, and who’d had an affair with Wellington’s wife.

Notably, Wellington’s victims were not the best of society. But without a prime suspect to investigate, none of these connections could be linked. The Harbinger letters left behind at the scenes offered no clues to the suspect. The foreshadowed “doomsday” now appears to be little more than Wellington ridding himself of the people who posed a threat to his life, his career, even his marriage.

The solved mystery, oftentimes, is less enthralling and fascinating.

The case will never officially be closed. Not without a suitable scapegoat to take the fall for Wellington’s murder. There may still be a way to offer some form of closure, but to do that, I need to enlist the expertise of a particular professor.

I stand outside the entrance of the Graystone Institute, my arms tucked close to my chest, shivering despite my thick coat and gloves. It’s been ninety days since Kallum and I parted at Pal’s Tavern and he refused visitation, adamant that we’d never again meet inside an “asylum,” though the mental health and wellness hospital is more of a country club compared to Briar.

When the glass door slides open and Kallum emerges, I realize the reason I’m shivering has nothing to do with the frigid Massachusetts weather.

Dressed in a heavy wool overcoat, his sophisticated suit beneath clashing strategically with his combat boots, Kallum is smoldering desire wrapped in designer attire. Immediately, I’m rendered defenseless against his devastating smile. As his striking blue-and-green eyes sweep over me, I feel him all over, igniting a hot ache between my thighs.

“Dammit.” While we have spoken over the phone during the length of his stay, it’s easy to forget how affecting Kallum is in person. How when his long strides close the distance between us and he drops his bags to bracket either side of my face, I’m lost to him all over again.

He says nothing at first, choosing instead to touch his lips to mine in a tender, familiarizing kiss. His mouth coaxes mine into a more demanding caress before his tongue glides over my bottom lip, tasting me, owning me.

His soft lips track across my jawline, where he nuzzles his face into my hair and breathes me in. “Just as sweet,” he says, the baritone of his voice sparking an electric current beneath my skin.

I swallow hard against the pressure of his palms. “I still don’t understand why you refused to see me.”

He straightens to his full height, forcing me to crane my neck as he locks me in his sure gaze. “Having you right in front of me and being unable to touch you… That’s a torment I choose to no longer bear, Halen.” He flashes me a crooked smile. “Come on. You’re freezing, and I’m anxious to get the stench of this place off me.”

We load his bags into the back of my Rav4, which I specifically acquired to make the climb up the Berkshires. I click the fob to close the rear lift-gate, my gaze lingering on the boxes wedged between my luggage.

The drive to Great Barrington takes just under two hours. As I turn off the highway, I can feel the press of Kallum’s stare. “Did you decide if you’re going back?”

The president of the university offered Kallum his previous position. As he was never found guilty of murder, and he did aide in an investigation that helped save a whole town, I suppose Professor Locke is just too much of an academic commodity, making his time served in a mental institution easily overlooked.

“No,” he says evenly. “Not sure I want to return to a lecture hall.”

I nod knowingly. After watching Kallum work a case, I find it difficult to picture him in a classroom setting. Especially now that he’s had a taste of danger.

“Are you working a current scene?” he asks, angling his body my way.

I shake my head and glance over at him in the passenger seat. “I just wrapped one up two days ago. I’m kind of between places.”

“What case?”

Since the news out of Hollow’s Row, I’ve been contacted by police departments, the feds, private investigators, and even one psychic medium to help solve cases.

“A cold case, actually.” I grip the steering wheel tighter. “I find I like helping to solve the cases that would otherwise languish without answers, being able to give closure.”

He makes a sound of acknowledgement, his gaze drifting over me deliberately.

While the scenic drive up the mountainside comes with breathtaking views, I was hoping for the stunning oranges and reds that blanket the peaks and valleys during the fall. Instead, it’s the bleak winter sky with tufts of white and barren, leafless trees that remind me too much of the marsh.

Nestled high in the Berkshire Mountain range amid rocky outcroppings and tall trees, the renovated chalet comes into view. Both rustic and elegant, Kallum’s home is like a modern work of art banked on the side of the mountain incline.

Once inside, the interior is awe-inspiring. Stained black cedar contrasts with natural wood tones. An open floorplan with window walls wrap the home, surrounding us with frozen nature and views of the ridge.

“God, this is impressive, and intimidating.” I shed my coat as I spin in a circle, taking in the leather mixed with delicate textiles. A double-sided stone and metal fireplace anchors the space of the first floor. Alongside it, a vertical firewood rack stacked with logs ascends the wall.

“I thought about stealing you away here more than once,” he says, capturing me with a devious smile. Then he has me in his arms. The perfectly right feel of his body enveloping mine triggers an ache deep in my chest. “Take a shower with me.”

I lick my lips, and his gaze drops heavy on my mouth. “I want this part over, done,” I say, my eyes flitting to the fireplace.

We had agreed to do this together. The issue of trust wasn’t raised, but since discovering Kallum kept an article of my clothing from that night—which he had his lawyer relocate here after the search of his residences was concluded—I decided it’s important for both of us to be present.