The greatest love stories are born of fire.
Tragedy. Cruelty. Passion.
I wasn’t searching for love; my analytical mind never believed in the concept, nor did I think it applied to my life. A romantic partner would be a burden, would prevent me from achieving my goals.
But Blakely has always been different. She’s unique to me, my other half. Now that I’ve found her, I can’t simply return to a gray existence with no purpose.
She’s my future. Whether we’re making love or trying to kill each other, obsession presents as love and grips you whole.
I have no choice but to keep her.
Whoever claimed love should be healthy is a fool who believes in greeting cards.
All love is selfish and feeds ego. Our mind’s way of keeping us relevant in a world that doesn’t care if we jump off a cliff.
As such, I did what I had to do today to prevent the woman I love—that I need—from jumping off her cliff.
I slip my phone into my pocket and cock my head. “This morning, you needed incentive,” I say. “Do you think Grayson or Brewster or any of his thugs will stop with just you? They’ll come after your family to get what they want.”
She levels me with a fierce glare. “Which you made sure of by implicating my mother.” She grabs the shears off the workbench and approaches me. “Chicken or egg, Alex. Which came first?” She takes hold of my tie, drawing me closer. “Would anyone be in danger if I’d never met you?”
She snaps the shears, cutting my tie off below the knot.
Tossing the garden tool on the bench, she turns her back to me and heads toward the door. “Grayson gave you two weeks. I’m giving you five days. Then I want you out of my life forever. Or else next time, it won’t be your stupid tie.”
At her threat, I shift uncomfortably at the twinge of pain in my cock.
Devising the plan was relatively simple. I just had to decide which psychopath I wanted to frame for the murders: Grayson or Brewster.
Elimination is the objective.
In order for Blakely to remain clear of any implication to Ericson’s murder, all three players—Grayson, London, Brewster—need to be removed from the board.
And in order for Blakely to accept her new path and existence, she needs to embrace her design.
She’s the perfect calibrated weapon, after all.
Her years spent honing her skills in the art of revenge, coupled with her extreme emotions, fashioned a masterpiece not even I could’ve imagined.
Victor Frankenstein would either be impressed, or terrified by my creation.
But with her unstableness at this early stage, I have to go slowly with her. In essence, direct her toward her main objective without overloading her system, as was the case with Ericson.
I was too weak at the conception of my project to accept the truth. The end result was never going to be about curing psychopaths. Grayson said it himself, a cure is not realistic. No, it’s not about curing him at all—it’s about killing him, and all others like him.
After all, that is the only true method to cure the world of psychopaths.
My failures with every other subject helped me realize why Blakely was a success, and how I need to utilize her rarity.
The moment she gave in to her overpowering emotions and took a life, she flipped a switch in her DNA. Her genetic makeup is that of a killer. All the proof was there in her brain scans. When compared to those of infamous killers, Blakely’s scans were very closely matched.
She was right that we’ll never know if she would’ve crossed the line prior to the treatment. Most psychopaths never commit murder. Brain scans can’t predict future actions.
But as I stare at her from across my lab, watching the way she examines my workspace, taking in every detail, I know undoubtedly I was meant to find her.
The fates wove our life threads together, and now we’re bound to one another—creator and creation—whether by fate or doom. That is our future.
I remove my glasses and set them next to my laptop. Ever since we left her parents’ penthouse yesterday, she’s been distracted, detached. Plotting the scheme used to be her favorite part of her revenge jobs. I know this plan is extreme by comparison, but I need to figure out what’s holding her back and remedy it.
She notices my attention on her. “You were this close to me the whole time, just a few blocks away.” She turns and hoists herself up onto the gurney. “I could sense you watching me. What’s that called again? You told me the first time we met.”
“Scopaesthesia,” I say, though I never told her the actual name of the phenomenon, just remarked on how she was highly attuned to the ability to sense being watched. Another of the skills in her arsenal which makes her perfect.
“Right.” She nods slowly. “Alex and his big, smart words.”
Pushing back in the metal chair, I cross my arms. “We should go over the plan.”
She hops off the gurney and wheels the stool Grayson last used to the metal table, evidently ready to participate.
I put my glasses back in place and look at the screen. I have dates and locations recorded based on what I gleaned from Brewster’s schedule. Which, of course, can and probably will change over the subsequent days. You can’t count on a career criminal to keep to his Google calendar, but it should give us enough information to map his next steps.
Deciding on the order of events came down to behavior. Brewster is an ideal victim for the Angel of Maine serial killer. He runs a drug ring, pumping toxins into the city. So a simple trap designed around a supplier who’s forced to overdose on his own supply—while not as gruesome as some of Grayson’s kills—is believable. And that’s all it needs to be.
Planting the switchblade on Brewster is one step further to tie him to Ericson’s murder, putting the final nail in the coffin. Grayson punishes a seedy, murdering criminal, and the detectives have a closed case on both sides.
“Grayson will expect a move like this from you,” Blakely says, folding her arms on the table.
I close the laptop. “But not from you.” I reach into my rucksack and remove the microchip she discovered in Dr. Noble’s business card. “It’s not a listening device. It’s a tracker. Any reason you can think of why Dr. Noble would want to keep tabs on your whereabouts?”
She begins to shake her head and stops abruptly, her dark eyebrows knitting in thought. “London seemed to think you would find me,” she says. “Maybe it was a way to keep tabs on you.”
Possibly. But Grayson had no issues tracking me down, and here I am, right in the same place where he left me. My own deduction is that Grayson has every intention of disposing of me when the countdown is over. He’s aware of my feelings for Blakely, and he can assume I’ll try to hide her before that happens.
He also took my USB drive and the remaining vials of my compound that, to a psycho killer who mocks a cure, holds no interest for him. But maybe it interests Dr. Noble. Killing Blakely might not be their endgame.
I keep this theory to myself for now, and lay the chip on the table. “Did you pack a bag?”
“I got everything I needed from my place,” she confirms.
I made sure Blakely cleared out her apartment of anything important yesterday while I analyzed the chip and did the groundwork for Brewster. Five days to frame two people for murder leaves no margin for error. We can’t lose any opportunity that may present because one of us isn’t prepared. Even to run.