Anger seizes my nerves, and I shove the gurney away. “Fuck.”

With begrudging effort, I wheel the gurney to the kitchenette and raise the bed. The body slides off and lands with an unceremonious flop on the plastic sheet. Counter forensic measures are taken to clean the body and mask the burn marks on the temples, but only as an added precaution. No one will miss Reilly Stafford. He’s a toxic dump of human filth.

I cover myself with a used Tyvek suit I fished from the same medical dumpsite I sourced the gurney, then I select the switchblade—the one identical to the blade Blakely used to carry on her person, the one she brutally stabbed Ericson thirteen times with.

I stand over the dead body and grip the hilt, then begin stabbing his chest and torso.

It’s not an easy feat, driving a knife into a body. Without the presence of rage, you feel the blade slice past skin and cartilage and tendon. You have to wriggle the knife loose and pry it out. The sound is worse.

The time of death is so closely marked to the knife wounds, a medical examiner will find it difficult to determine that cause of death wasn’t due to the attack. I make sure to hit the heart, and watch blood slowly ooze atop his chest.

I stab him twelve times, one less than Blakely’s count, but authorities will still label it as overkill.

Even though it’s not scientific in the least, when I chose my subjects from her list, I believed a link to Blakely would tip the scales in our favor, that the next treatment would be a success. How sentimentally superstitious of me.

But here I am once again, another failed procedure, another expired subject.

I could recreate the experiment a hundred times, do everything exactly identical, and I would never get the same outcome. I don’t even have to compare the data to know why.

The result is unique to Blakely.

She is unique.

I’m unsure if this realization infuriates me or excites me—but it does simplify the objective.

For the past two years, I’ve been trying to change the world by designing a preventative. A cure to inhibit the decay and deterioration of the mind into a psychopathic state, when the cure is far more elaborate and…unique.

The objective has never been more clear.

I know what has to be done.

Once I dump the body, making sure to get every detail precise, it’s time to find my little lost monster.

There is preparation to be done. The groundwork must be lain.

They say absence makes the heart grow stronger.

The anticipation is killer.

I had wanted to share my discovery, my breakthrough with the world. I had wanted to honor my sister and restore her status in the medical community.

Now I don’t want to share Blakely with anyone.

It’s not about prevention at all.

It’s about elimination.

And I have the perfect calibrated weapon to carry out that objective.

OceanofPDF.com

27

OceanofPDF.com

OLD FLAMES

OceanofPDF.com

BLAKELY

My plane touches down at eight-thirty on the west coast. The San Francisco airport teems with eager tourists, arriving in shorts and tanks and pasty skin anxious for a sunburn. It takes me half an hour of wandering the airport maze to get to the outside world, where a hot and humid blast of coastal air hits me like a wet blanket.

I Uber to the downtown hotel I rented for the night. Located only blocks from Union Square, the luxury hotel boasts views of the cityscape, the bay, Alcatraz, Golden Gate and the Bay Bridge. While the suite’s terrace view is quite breathtaking, I’m here for none of that.

My phone pings with a text. I set my wineglass on the marble table and slide the message open. Tension knots my belly as I reply to the text, then call down to the lobby.

Before I ventured to Devil’s Peak, I had sent an email to the renowned criminal psychologist Dr. London Noble. In vague reference to myself and without providing any names or identifying particulars, I detailed Alex’s theory on psychopaths, his gruesome experiment, and the fact the convicted serial killer Grayson Sullivan had been the direct catalyst.

To be honest, the email sounded insane. I didn’t expect a response from this woman, who has been through much of her own suffering at the hands of a deranged killer. So I was shocked when Dr. Noble invited me to speak with her in person.

I mean, I could’ve just scheduled a session with the psychologist. Shown up at her townhouse office and sprang the whole horror story on her right in her therapy room, using the doctor/patient confidentiality clause and demanding all her answers. And normally, that’s exactly what I would have done. Treated her as an obstacle to be removed in order to obtain my objective. Quick. Easy. Direct.

I reach for the Cabernet, take a long sip, savoring the robust flavor and heated buzz rushing my veins. My fingertips turn white against the wineglass as my grip tightens.

I’m not the same quick, easy, direct woman. I second-guess every thought and decision, my emotions and brain at war with each other.

I feel fucking crazy, and I wonder if this is how women feel all the time. Questioning themselves, analyzing every damn thought, doubting their every choice.

If so, they have my fucking sympathy. No wonder most of my revenge-seeking clients were women.

A low knock sounds at the door. Two slow, light raps that ratchet my heart rate. I walk to the entrance and, rolling my shoulders back, slip into a new frame of mind and open the door.

Dr. Noble looks exactly like her professional picture online. Long dark hair braided over one shoulder. A sophisticated yet sexy black pencil skirt suit. Black-rimmed glasses. Refined and polished. Beautiful.

“Blakely Vaughn?” she asks with a serious expression that states why she’s here.

I nod once. “Thank you for meeting with me, Dr. Noble. Please, come in.” I step aside to allow her access.

As she enters the suite, she sets her leather handbag—Prada, I note—on the entryway table. “I prefer if you call me London. What we’re about to discuss negates the need for formalities and polite etiquette.”

I close the door. “Fair enough.” I head straight for the marble table and take a slug of wine, then raise the bottle toward her in offer. “Need a glass?”

A smile flits across her delicate lips. “I like that you inquire if I need instead of want. Very decisive. Says a lot about you.”

In true shrink fashion, she doesn’t actually answer the question. I pour her a big glass. “Analyzing me already.”

She shrugs, unapologetic. “That’s who I am.” She accepts the wine. “So, who are you, Blakely?”

I set the bottle down with a resounding clink against the marble. “That’s a damn good question.”

Head canted, she studies me with drawn eyebrows. Then she takes a sip of wine before she seriously begins. “You were born a psychopath.”

“Yes. A rather happy one.”

“This doctor…” She moves toward the sofa, places her drink on the end table, and unbuttons her blazer before taking a seat. “I hesitate to regard him as such, but you said he’s a biomedical scientist. He develops cures for diseases.”

I inhale a deep breath. “Yes.”

London crosses her legs slowly as her gaze assesses me. “He found your psychopathic nature to be a disease. And he…cured you.”

“Yes,” I say in confirmation.

“What you’re claiming is impossible.”

“And yet, here I am. The product of the good, unhinged doctor.” Smile tight, I add, “Because Grayson Sullivan murdered his sister.”