After I agreed to see her therapist, all was right again in the world of socialites and their murderous offspring.

It seems that’s all a mother truly wants, for her child to be safe and…happy.

Strange, all these years with uncomfortable discord between us, and all I had to do was take some random guidance from my mother and let her see how grateful I was.

Becoming closer with my mother was, honestly, the strangest part of this whole nightmare. Don stripper gear and give a lap dance to a gangster? No problem. Have dinner with my mother and tell her thank you? The world tilts off its axis.

The newswoman on screen grabs my attention as Brewster’s name appears on the caption. I click the button to unmute the television.

“Today an arrest was made of one of the city’s most notorious playboys and philanthropists. Shane Brewster was charged in the murder of chief financial adviser, Ericson Daverns. Brewster is also being indicted on several counts of racketeering, bribery, and money laundering, as well as charges of organized drug sales.”

I click off the TV.

The shopping list of charges the DA is tacking onto Brewster’s prosecution is simply to make sure he goes down for something, while getting the max time.

Brewster can get out of a murder charge. He’ll pin it on one of his guys to take the fall. It’s the money he can’t—ironically—buy his way out of.

The government wants their tax dollars.

As the pieces fall into place, a sense of justified rightness settles over me. I was never in the revenge game for justice, no matter what Alex claims. My business was self-serving.

Yes, I was cruel.

I had a sickness inside me.

I feared the day that sickness devoured the last dregs of my humanity and I became a real monster.

But it was always that fear, that awareness of my nature, which kept me inline and the consuming darkness at bay. It was always in my power. Even as a psychopath, I harbored fear of myself.

I lost control when my emotions owned me.

You don’t have to be a psychopath to do horrible things—succumbing to our fears can turn us villainous.

Emotions or not, Alex was right, I am the same person.

The heightened sense of thrill courses my veins, almost bringing me to tears. I no longer feel lost, alone. Aimless. Blakely was inside me the whole time, just waiting for me to find her.

I grab my bag and phone as I head to the door.

When I was sitting across from her, London told me that, as long as I was successful in handling Alex, then Grayson had no need to intervene.

She wasn’t giving me her assessment of her patient; she was giving me a warning.

When Alex made the threat that London could have me institutionalized, he hinted to a very crucial aspect of the duo’s relationship. She’s the one in control. She wields the power.

London is the key.

Alex made a deal with Grayson, but I can make a deal with her.

I make the call.

When she answers, I say, “It’s done.”

A pause fills the line before she replies. “Hello, Blakely. I’m so glad you decided to finally reach out to me.”

I walk around a food cart, the pungent scent of overcooked street meat smacking me in the face, and it’s still a more favorable greeting than London’s.

“The situation has been handled,” I say to her, keeping the conversation short and on point. “Alex is out of the picture. I took care of him. I was successful.” I stress the word to reiterate our conversation.

Silence stretches across the line, then: “What are you going to do now?”

Paused at a crosswalk, I hold up the microchip and squint at the numbers too tiny to discern with the naked eye. “I don’t know, honestly. I was thinking about retiring from my current profession, but—” I snap a quick picture of the chip and text it to her number “—first, I might see if this serial number matches any metadata connected to Brewster’s case. You know, just in case forensics overlooked anything.”

My threat is very clear.

Grayson isn’t off the hook yet, and neither is she. The DA could make a very creative case for how a serial killer and his psychologist aided Brewster in eliminating his shady connections.

Here is our ultimate quid pro quo.

As long as we each have something or someone to lose, we can reach an agreement.

“I think that’s unnecessary,” London finally says. “I’m sure the authorities have everything they need to make their case.”

Checkmate.

“I’m moving out of the country,” she continues. “It’s a shame we didn’t get to have another session before I fly out. I truly wanted to help you solve your dilemma. Of course, I can always analyze the data remotely, send you my findings.”

My phone vibrates, and I lower the device to open a text. A picture of a USB drive—Alex’s USB drive—appears on the screen.

A humorless laugh festers inside me. London is keeping the status quo for damn sure.

Alex admitted he can’t recreate the treatment. He’s failed with three subjects since me. The terrifying truth may be that he even failed with me.

My dilemma is whether or not Alex’s torture treatment is the reason my neural pathways altered, or if my feelings for him proves I’m a disempathetic type, what London brought to my attention during our meeting.

This is why Grayson stole Alex’s formula. London wants to conduct her own research into the cure of psychopaths.

And I was going to be her control, her basis for comparison.

Alex was absolutely right. Had I not found a way to threaten the couple, then I’d probably be in the back of Grayson’s trunk right now, and Alex would be buried at Devil’s Peak.

I clamp my hand around the chip, keeping my eyes on the crossing sign as it signals to walk. I don’t move. Car horns blare and people pass in a hurry on foot and bikes, and I stand stalled on the sidewalk.

“I appreciate your concern,” I say, “but I’m not interested in any further research.”

Breath bated, I wait to hear her response.

“I understand. Thank you for your help securing loose ends.” London’s voice sounds faraway in my ear. “Have a nice life, Blakely Vaughn.”

She ends the call.

A whoosh of air escapes my lungs.

So that’s it. I get to walk away as no one’s lab rat, and Alex gets to live.

It’s over. I have to accept this is an element out of my control. Alex lost his research, but we’re alive. We’re free to decide what we do with our life.

A tradeoff I can for damn sure live with.

Glancing around the busy intersection, I stand at the corner of the crosswalk. There’s a fork before me, two directions to choose from.

My very first choice to make.

One direction leads to the kennel. The other leads out of the city, away from Alex.

I could disappear right now. Walk away from Alex and this whole sordid life.

But even as I’m debating my choice, my feet move in a familiar direction.

I reach the kennel and push the key into the door. As I walk into the front, the silence thrums my nerves. I glance around for Addisyn. She’s not supposed to leave Alex alone. Ever.

Irritation twists my stomach, but, in truth, I never trusted a dog crate to hold Alex. I knew there was a better than slim chance he’d escape, but I just needed a head start.

“Addisyn,” I call out. “You psycho nut, the deal was you weren’t supposed to leave.”

As I enter the back, everything appears the same as it did four days ago.

A sliver of relief uncoils the tension in my muscles. I take a single moment to process what I’m about to do, then I step toward the cage. Alex is there, wearing the same clothes and looking a little more haggard. Keeping his back to me, he won’t turn around. He won’t look at me.

A charge fills the air the closer I get. He could’ve escaped—but he didn’t. Which means he chose to let me do this my way. He also trusted that I’d come back for him. Whether he’s full-on delusional, I guess it no longer matters.