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.
The small span of distance between us is eaten as I move toward the cage.
I dig the key out of my pocket and push it into the lock.
“Yeah, I’m stunned stupid too that I’m actually here—” But as the words leave my mouth, I notice the tension on the padlock.
Only it’s too late.
I hear a click, then a loud whirring noise. The top of the cage is yanked backward as the sides fall away. Alex’s arms are stretched above his head as he’s hoisted into the air, suspended before me.
Oh, my god.
A trap has been triggered.
I called checkmate too soon.
17
Inertia
Alex
In physics, inertia is the consistency of force moving at the same speed, on the same path, without change, unless interrupted.
In life, inertia is a state of apathy, lethargy. Idleness. The state of remaining the same, unmoved and unmovable.
Before Blakely, I never thought of life outside of science. Everything had a scientific explanation. And I was on a course to greatness, even if the world would never appreciate my discovery, my sacrifice. My ego was so that I didn’t sense my inertia, how I was drifting on a linear path, stagnant, for an unmeasurable timeframe.
I could’ve existed in that dormant state forever.
Until she interrupted my state of being.
The most unfeeling and cruel creature—inhumane by her own design—crashed my world of metrics and careful calculations and changed me. With a darkly ironic twist, she made me see the world through a human lens.
So as I’m thrust into the air, my wrists and ankles bound by cable, my limbs stretched and my body racked, all I can see is how astonishingly beautiful she is below me. How the widening of her sea-green eyes convey her vortex of emotions. How her parted mouth, her words hung in suspension just as I am, begs to be kissed to steal away her fear.
She removes all doubt.
“Alex—” she shouts, spinning in a circle below me. “What the fuck is going on?”
The cables cinch tighter, slicing into my skin, and I grit out a response. “You need to leave. Now, Blakely. Go—”