“Sure…” After she sets the bottles and syringe on the counter, she pushes through the doors, leaving us alone.
“She’ll fuck up whatever you have planned.” His coy smile falls as his tone lowers to a serious base note. “You involved her. She knows too much. You’re making a mistake. But it’s not too late. We can still fix this.”
“By killing her?” I shake my head as I shove the gloves into my pocket. “I can handle Addisyn, and I can handle Brewster, for that matter. I devised revenge schemes long before you crashed my life. Just ask Addisyn herself.” I swing my bag over my shoulder. “And I can do it without having to kill.” I blow him a goodbye kiss. “Be a good boy while I’m gone.”
“You’re coming back for me.”
I stand halted, weighing if I should treat his statement as a question or declaration, and ultimately decide to ignore it.
But then I almost forget. I pivot back toward the cage and drop the bag. “Empty your pockets.”
Alex holds my gaze, his fingers threaded through the square mesh of the cage. “I just wanted you to realize your greater purpose.”
“You wanted to make a psychopath terminator,” I fire back, a hoarse laugh slipping free. “I may be sick, Alex, but you’re deranged. One of us has to be sane and put a stop to this.”
His fingers tighten around the metal; he despises not being in control. Of this situation, of me. Finally, he relents and shoves away from the cage. He digs into his pockets and removes the items one-by-one.
He pushes a pocketknife through a square opening, dropping it into the bag. His wallet comes next along with his phone. He slides both under the slat of the wire crate. He produces the microchip we discovered in London’s business card. Hesitantly, he palms the chip a second before sending it through the cage.
I catch it before it hits the bag. “Your belt, too,” I order him.
An amused sound slips free as he unbuckles his black belt. He then winds it slowly around his uninjured hand, making a production for my benefit. Heat prickles my face as I recall the feel of the leather tightening around my wrists.
“I’m pretty crafty with fabrics, too,” he says. “Want my clothes? Leaving me caged naked and humiliated for a week might balance the scales between us.”
I lift my chin. Of course Alex would conclude a week timeline, considering Brewster’s departure schedule, but it’s his assumption I’ll simply release him at that point that sends a fire-hot lash across my skin.
After he slips the belt through the slat at the bottom of the cage, I kneel down and toss it in the bag and zip it closed.
As I stand, I meet his eyes, knowing every torturous emotion exposed on my face is impossible to mask.
“I’m not trying to punish you, or to get even,” I admit, startled to realize it’s the truth. “You were right, Alex. When you told me I was only focused on the life I took rather than the life I saved. If for nothing else, thank you for helping me realize this, and to understand what I have to do now to save another life.”
I let my fingers rest on top of his, swallowing the burning ache that rises up in my throat.
Maybe it’s the sincerity he hears in my voice, or the lack of resentment, but his features relax, and a look of solemn acceptance settles over his expression.
As I pull my hand away, I catch sight of the suspended pocket watch. I’ll let him keep his token. When he crushed the watch, he was trying to set me free. Or he was trying to free the both of us. Either way, he was attempting to rid himself of the madness devouring his mind from the experiment and the lives he took.
Breaking the timepiece didn’t change his outcome, however.
I’m not sure if anything can change for us, but he should have the reminder.
As I start to leave, he finally speaks up. “Grayson took the USB drive with the compound formula.”
Paused at the doors, wariness threads my spine. I close my eyes and breathe, steeling my resolve. I can’t fall for his manipulations.
“They want you,” he continues, undeterred. “To study you, or to experiment on you… I don’t have a working theory yet. But they do want you, and I’m positive they will inflict far worse tortures than I ever could.”
“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.
16
Checkmate
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.