“We met with me doing my job. The reason why we talk is because we have something in common now. It’s easier to talk about couriers and dead people, than it is to talk about the real shit between us, but he manages to squeeze it in all the time, catching me off guard.”
And it all comes full circle. I had given Kace his own homework assignment: to keep her talking, but not to push too hard if she shut down. He had been afraid of her self-imposed isolation and how dark it got in her head. He worried for her life while he was at work. “You’re afraid he’ll discover you’re contemplating murder and talk you out of it? That’s why you settled for the less communicative state.”
She sighs loudly and rubs at the center of her forehead.
I get the sense she’s not particularly happy about me voicing her fear, but both of us know there’s more to it.
“I need to find the person Kace is looking for.”
“Why?”
“Because I think he can help me.”
“He who?” The numbers on my scorecard float, showing me an average of 2.4 and marking her as an ideal candidate.
“The killer … The Bullet Man.”
Her words cut through my thought process like a knife. They are working on my case? “How do you think the Bullet Man can help you?”
“He solves cases no one else can.” She holds my gaze, as if she knows it’s me.
I freeze, moving only to jot something down and hide my face from her. Attentive or not, detectors always perceive, they just don’t process when they don’t want to. “I’m not sure how to respond to that,” I say to distract her. “It’s not every day one of my patients comes in here, seeking out a serial killer.”
“He’s not a serial killer,” she corrects me. “He’s a proxy killer. He convinces other people to murder, but doesn’t show any evidence of interfering himself, which may mean he’s not after the kill.”
“Still dangerous,” I point out. Though I didn’t exactly consider myself dangerous and I most certainly do not convince my subjects. Part of being an ideal candidate is being a client, or one of the anonymous people at one of the free sessions at the university. I need access to their well-being so I can track each case study. My primary goal is to help them and deliver the name of the killer at the opportune time—at a crucial, pivotal moment in their life.
“I don’t care if he kills me. He brings justice to their families.”
I do not murder people. “Then why does he not help the police?” I pretend like the Bullet Man and I are two distinct entities.
“Because sometimes the police can’t do shit.”
She’s right. “Are you close to finding him?”
“No,” she says sadly. “I don’t think I’m supposed to talk about this but fuck it. He’s careful, and we don’t know how he solves the cases.”
I lean forward and rest my elbows on my thighs. “I work with a lot of people on the force. I’m usually referred when they want to keep cops on the roster and not have them on permanent leave.”
Her nostrils flare at the thought of being fired.
“Rest assured, I will not betray your trust and divulge personal information. If and when they ask for an update, which they already have, I’ll simply state whether or not you are ready to go back to work in an official capacity and my reasoning behind it. No specific details, especially since most of these vengeful thoughts are part of working through a process.”
The gleam in her eye tells me it is definitely not part of her grieving process, but I pretend not to notice.
“Maybe I can help you with that.” Or I can throw them off a little.
Her whole body is at attention. “You can?”
“I came across someone who received a bullet from the Bullet Man. His wife’s case had been cold for eight years.”
“Which case was that? I’ve studied all of them.”
“Perhaps you only studied the ones which provided a body. It seems to me this is more about the replies than the actual messages.”
“How so?”
“When you don’t want to talk about something, what do you do?” Evasion through redirection and ignoring.
She smashes her lips together, exactly as I expected. I wait for her to realize the silence between us is the answer, but she switches to the next thought. “What would be the purpose of giving messages to someone if not for the goal of killing?”
“See. You ignore what you don’t want to talk about. Maybe others do as well.”
She flares her nostrils and blinks rapidly, forcing out a smile as acknowledgment. Whatever thoughts are running in her head are swallowed and dissolved.
“To answer your question, perhaps the object is not the kill, but the closure.”
“Hmm … I remember there being talk about a bullet or two being turned in. This man, was it three years ago?”
“I don’t know the specific dates, but I remember hearing—not in the confidence of this room—that he turned it into the police.”
She may be baiting me. This may all be a way of setting me up, but even if they had the counseling connection, I am ninety-nine percent certain they can’t connect me to these people, not enough to get a warrant. “This is a big city. Does he work around a specific location?” Not that big, but big enough to hide in the commotion.
“No. Bodies pop up all around the city. Some don’t even fall under our jurisdiction. Cops chase down nothings—because that’s all we basically have—and I’m no closer to finding him.” She smooths her hair and chews on her lower lip before absentmindedly adding, “I just keep getting closer to Kace, and it makes it harder to do what needs to be done.”
Had the police pinpointed me as the Bullet Man? Is she here to trick me into a confession? The thoughts disturb me, and I study her. “Our hour is almost up, so for your next assignment, write about would you would say to the Bullet Man.”
“Another one? I’m still distributing sticky notes.”
“Good, keep doing that.”
She grumbles miserably and walks for the door. “See you on Friday, Doc.”
She leaves me alone to think about her case and the pivotal moment in her recovery process, not to mention I’d need leverage.
Guess we just put a rush order in on Tyler Dalton. Tracking me would take more than the time I would need to solve her case, and then, we could come to a mutual agreement. She wouldn’t turn me in if I didn’t turn her in.
Maybe we could even be friends.
8
Blinks
Eleanor Devero
“What are you writing?” Kace walks in on me, sitting on the couch.
“Nothing.” I shut my notebook and glance up at his shirtless figure. Nolan’s words whirl around in my head, and I tear my glance away before I heed my desolate heart.
“You need a pen to write nothing?”
I peek up again and mumble, “You got more muscles.”
He cracks a smile and swooshes into the living room, taking a seat on the edge of his desk. “I’ve had a lot of energy to expend.” The tone in his voice dips low, and his gaze lingers on my bare legs.