“That’s a chance I’m willing to take.” I leave, not looking back at him.

“Even if you pull it off, they’re not going to just let you go. I’m trying to protect you—” he shouts after me. “This can only end bloody.”

It’s possible he’s telling the truth, as far as he believes. The other night in the dance club, I wondered what London and Grayson were after, if it was me who lit the fuse and set off the chain of events. I could continue to speculate but, as I’ve learned from Alex, too much theory and becoming mired in analysis can inhibit action.

And I’m at my best when taking action.

I palm the microchip, my resolve firmly in place as I pass Addisyn on my way out. “Do what you have to.” I stop at the front door, glancing her way. “Try not to kill him, though. I like his pretty blue eyes.”

She cranes a perfectly shaped eyebrow in acknowledgment, and I wonder if I’ve made the right choice.

Doubt is a debilitating emotion. Doubt makes you weak, it makes you question your own mind. Even when you know the right choice, the friction to make that choice holds you back.

The pain and heartache that comes from strength of character is the price you pay for your morals.

Sometimes, it’s easier to give in to your fear.

I hate Alex for what I’ve become, but right now, I hate myself more.

I leave Addisyn in charge of Alex, with the hope I can pull off a scheme to finally set us free. Because that’s all any of us want.

It’s what I read in London when she spoke of her patient; her desire to be free—free of the constraint of her world, free to be with Grayson. For them to live their life on their terms.

Alex is a threat to that.

He threatens to expose Grayson, and no matter how well organized Alex’s plan is, we can’t risk failing. We can’t take any more lives.

If I succeed, I can deliver freedom for all of us without becoming the monster Alex tried to create.

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40

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CHECKMATE

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BLAKELY

My phone vibrates in my back pocket.

I dig it out to read the text:

He’s starting to get ripe.

Aggravation knots my shoulders at the countless interruptions. I stretch and fire off a reply text to Addisyn.

Hose him down.

We’re talking in code, I suppose. If anyone ever finds it necessary to comb through my data, I’m simply discussing a smelly dog with a woman who works at a kennel. I did manage to take this into account before I decided to lock a man in a cage and embark on a reckless mission to frame one of the most dangerous men in NYC.

It’s taken four days to orchestrate a strategy which ties Brewster to Alex’s victims and…mine. Ultimately deciding to frame Brewster for Ericson’s murder was the part which took the longest. I had an internal battle to wage.

However, for the frame job to be clear-cut, there can’t be any loose ends or victims sharing the same murder methodology as the other victims. Every death has to be linked to Brewster’s drug ring.

How I did it:

I meticulously scoured Ericson’s financial reports and bank statements, highlighting any transactions connected to Brewster’s shell companies. The obscene number of 0s Ericson was moving for Brewster made me realize Alex was right in the regard that Brewster would come after the person who killed his financial advisor.

He would have to know the why, and if that person had knowledge of Brewster and Ericson’s dealings, whether for blackmail or another nefarious reason. It was simply too risky for Brewster to ignore, but also, there was money piling up in accounts with no one to move it.

This is where the motive comes in.

With one smartly coded program, all those dirty 0s were transferred into one of Brewster’s legitimate accounts right here in the city.

Any transaction over 10k sets off a red flag with the bank and has to be reported to the IRS and investigated, which a savvy businessman like Brewster would know, of course. So it couldn’t be an amateur move on his part; it had to be a failsafe set up by Ericson in the event of his untimely demise.

I didn’t have to do too much backtracking and overriding of Ericson’s accounts. He was already stealing money from his client. I just had to make it more obvious.

So when the lead detective on the case was alerted of the banking activity surrounding one of his suspects, it didn’t take long for a warrant to be issued and a search of Brewster’s penthouse to be underway, where the murder weapon was retrieved.

That concludes round one.

I turn on the widescreen in my loft office and flip through local channels. An action so mundane feels foreign to me, the simple act of staring at the TV screen ratchets my anxiety, as if precious time is being wasted.

This could be the result of running on pure adrenaline for the past ninety-six hours—or the fact I have to make a crucial decision soon.

I stop on a news station and force myself to sit. And watch.

For round two:

The second and hardest part of the scheme was actually getting my switchblade with Ericson’s DNA into Brewster’s penthouse at The Plaza. The high price tag on the attic unit ensures the best security measures, and I couldn’t just walk the weapon in myself and plant it.

I had to have one of Brewster’s thugs walk it in. Fortunately, my weeks spent stalking Ericson during his revenge job coincided with Brewster’s crew’s schedule. I knew of at least three gentlemen’s clubs where his guys liked to frequent.

I hesitated a moment before I wiped the knife hilt clean of my prints, then one sexy and meticulous lap dance with the right thug placed the switchblade in a briefcase that was soon on its way to the penthouse. Just in time for the two-day search of Brewster’s penthouse and financials.

Once the connection to Ericson’s murder was made, the detectives had an easier time linking the other victims to Brewster via their bank records and metadata.

Records and metadata I fabricated.

Like Reilly Stafford, who had a known drug habit. Reilly paid for his supply by middle-manning one of Brewster’s college drug rings. And Caleb Foster, a financial adviser at another firm who Ericson placed in charge of one of Brewster’s offshore accounts. And Christopher Monroe, an owner of a high-end car dealership that Brewster used to launder money through. And the dealership’s adviser? One Ericson Daverns.

Which looks something like this: Ericson was stealing a gross amount of money from his client, giving Brewster motive to have Ericson killed. The other murders were cleanup on Brewster’s end, to make sure any questionable connections between Ericson and Brewster were removed.

If this was one of my revenge jobs, I would have titled it Ring Around the Gangster.

Maybe I would’ve come up with something better back then. My sense of humor has taken a hit since the inception of my emotions.

Although, according to Vanessa, she prefers the more delicate and expressive version of her daughter. As Vanessa Vaughn will not be ran out of her city, she refused to leave when I pleaded with her. So instead, I kept a close watch over her, which included a dinner that saved a lot of unnecessary money flying toward legal teams. All I had to do was convince her her way was what was best for me, and take her advice.

I promised her my lawyer had convinced me to lay low until the investigation was over. I looked her right in her eyes—the hard green gems that mirror my own—and admitted what happened in the alleyway was self-defense, that I was finally coming to terms with the truth.