HALEN
I touch my lips, feeling the hot pulse of Kallum’s ruthless kiss. I can still taste his blood on my tongue. My heart beats erratically as I watch him being escorted away from the park by the federal agents.
When Kallum is placed in the backseat of the SUV, I finally haul in a full breath to fill my aching lungs and stagger to the bench before my legs collapse.
Every bit of strength I gathered to face him, to say the words I practiced, was stripped away when he pulled me so deep inside him. If not for the agents, I’d have given into him.
It’s taken me until now to understand the draw Kallum has had over me since the moment our eyes collided. I have feared him because of that, because of the logic he drains from my mind like a siphon.
I lose more than rational thought around him—I lose the woman I once endeavored to be.
I can feel his gaze on me, and I purposely stare at the trickling stream until the black SUV vanishes from my peripheral.
Calming my senses, I bring out my phone. The rope burn on my wrist catches my notice, and I yank the jacket sleeve down.
The injuries I sustained were not easily explained during processing. I had to own to my “peculiar” methods of putting myself in the minds of perpetrators while investigating crime scenes.
I confessed to binding my wrists as part of my research into the offender’s ritual. I confessed to cutting myself. Bathing my body in wine and blood.
In a degrading interview with Agent Alister, I admitted to using Kallum’s blood as a medium to further explore the ritual, to which he drew his own conclusion of our relationship crossing professional lines.
I did, however, deny that allegation. Stating Kallum was a willing participant in my prep work, but he was not to be held responsible for any of my actions as, at the time, I was the psychiatrist overseeing him.
My record will take a hit. I may never be able to have my own practice.
The final result was the FBI director signing a waiver on my behalf, as my method did ultimately lure the offender to the crime scene. And it was Agent Alister’s request that I and Kallum name a prime suspect within a tight deadline that prompted my extreme method of investigation.
Alister may have gotten admonished on that one, but he in no way suffered the same level of shaming as I did.
The catch is, I’m to give no interviews discussing my method or what transpired at the scene, and I had to sign a non-disclosure agreement to that effect.
The only small grace is Landry’s death was ruled a suicide. The medical examiner concluded Landry asphyxiated due to the convulsions from hemlock poisoning. I’m sure the FBI weighed in on that decision. With the victims still missing, it looks better on officials for the offender to have an uncomplicated death at his own hands.
Even still, there was no measure that could have been taken to save Landry’s life from the toxin. I’ve had to remind myself of this more than once.
Despite the waiver, the director of CrimeTech did dismiss me from my position within the company.
I’m jobless. Suffering delusional memories that haunt me every time I close my eyes. And potentially looking at a life sentence for murder—or being remanded to a mental hospital.
But first, before I leap off headfirst into any more abysses, I need answers.
Which is why I’m seeking those rational answers away from Kallum’s influence.
Holding the phone to my ear, I wait to be patched in to Dr. Floris’s line. When the doctor picks up, I hesitate a moment before asking her one of the questions plaguing me.
The endometrial ablation surgery I opted for after my miscarriage was due in part to Dr. Floris’s concern for my heavy bleeding, but was ultimately my choice after I decided I’d never become pregnant again.
There was discussions of other treatment methods, as she felt at my youthful age I may change my mind, but I was adamant.
“How?” I ask her on a shaky breath. I need at least one rational explanation to quiet the storm tearing at my mind.
“Halen, we’ve talked about this,” she says. In fairness to my doctor, I was never very present after the accident. “There is a chance you can have lighter periods and even begin regularly in less than a few years.”
“So what you’re saying is, it’s completely rational that I started my period.”
Her hesitancy seeps through the line. I’m sure she’s confused as to what answer will please me. After all, I did pay for an expensive surgery with the intent to stop bleeding.
“Halen,” she says carefully, “you’ve been through a lot. You have a high-stress career. Your hormones fluctuate. And stress, along with many other factors can—”
“I just need a logical explanation for what happened to me,” I snap at her.
“Yes,” she says. “It’s logical and even normal that you’re experiencing a period right now.”
The constriction in my chest loosens, and I abruptly thank her and hang up, not giving myself a moment to back out of making my next call. Before all of my authority is stripped away, I contact Joseph Wheeler.
I figure if he can get psychotic mental patients placed as consultants with the FBI for high-profile cases, then he can help me pull some strings to gain access to Kallum’s juvenile file—the sealed file only the judge was given access to during Kallum’s trial.
I issue my request, giving a vague reason as to why I require access, and using my doctorate for the first time as a method of persuasion. The chances are slim I’ll get that access, but I at least have to try.
As I head to the hotel, I keep my head down and gaze aimed on my phone as I try to avoid the press congesting the sidewalk.
There’s another call I need to make, but I’m undecided, worried I’m not yet ready to unpack the answer. I swipe away Dr. Torres’s contact and instead pull up my email.
To say it’s difficult for a psychologist or any mental health professional to ask for a psychological evaluation is an understatement. And I’m not yet sure if Dr. Torres is the right call in that regard. His stellar reputation aside, I have more questions for him than answers, and I have to be able to trust the doctor.
I have my own theories. Either Kallum drugged me—or I had an acute psychotic episode due to a number of stressors. Recent death of a loved one. Anniversary of the death of loved ones. High-stress work environment. All combined with the severe sleep deprivation I was suffering at the time could explain an extreme episode.
Which, with how deeply I was invested in the Harbinger case, would logically explain the reason as to why I have patchy memories, giving a sociopath like Kallum the opportunity to slip beneath my weakened mental defenses. He had the motive to do so. Yet…
For every logical explanation, there is an equally illogical factor. There is also the fact an innocent man was murdered to contend with—but if I layer on any more guilt right now, I will snap.
I’ll face all of my consequences in time.
Time and tide wait for no man.
I will surrender to time before Kallum Locke.
As I reach the hotel entrance, I spot Devyn in a silver Honda Civic parked along the curb. She waves me over, and I pocket my phone before I lean into the open passenger-side window.
“Get in,” she says, her face animated and voice clipped.
“What for? What’s going on?”
Her dark eyes pin me with disbelief. “What do you mean, what’s going—?” Taking a forced breath, she releases her severe grip on the steering wheel. “Halen, if we want to beat the feds to the crime scene, we need to leave now.”
A new level of dread tightens my chest. “Which crime scene?” I ask, my words measured.
“The scene discovered less than an hour ago.” Her pretty features draw together as her gaze holds mine.
I push away from the car and glance around the town teeming with federal agents, media, crime zealots.
I could walk away right now.
Whatever awaits me at that scene… I don’t have to know.
“Halen—”
Her urgent tone heightens my unease, and I duck my head into the window. “What scene?” I ask again.
“It might be another uncovered ritual site,” she says, shaking her head. “I don’t have a lot of details yet.”
The vise around my chest loosens a fraction. That would make sense, at least. My profile stated there may be a number of practice scenes in the killing fields.
“Devyn, I’ve been fired,” I tell her honestly.
She arches a sculpted eyebrow. “Oh, so you’re freelance now?”
I stall. “I suppose.”
“Okay, then you’re hired,” she says. “Officially hired by the Hollow’s Row Police Department as an expert forensic psychologist…blah blah.” She waves her hand impatiently. “However you want to phrase it. Now, get your ass in the car.”
I don’t think she technically has the authority to hire me, but I fear arguing with her. And despite every muscle in my body aching, a small part of me is curious, even elated. “Yes, ma’am. Oh”—I glance back at the hotel—“wait here for like, five minutes. I need to grab my kit.”
I make quick work of gathering my supplies, which were already packed. What gives me pause is the bag I have stuffed in the safe. After a moment to weigh the potential consequences, I shove my anxiety down into the roiling pit of my stomach and remove the satchel, then I meet Devyn at her car.
“I can’t believe you haven’t heard yet,” she says, flipping through radio stations on the dashboard.
“Fired, remember?” I stress. “I spent a good part of the day in debriefing getting my ass handed to me.”
“Well, you’re the one who had to go and be a hero.” She sends me a tight smile, and I appreciate that she’s trying to make light of a dire situation instead of interrogating me with invasive—and degrading—questions like others have.
I don’t think I could handle lying to her right now.
But the truth of the matter is, there are no heroes. The victims are still missing, with no leads on how to locate them.
We pass a news crew as she maneuvers her car between two large SUVs. “Damn. The feds have already pissed all over the scene.”
As she unbuckles her seatbelt, I say, “Wait.”
Her brown eyes dart to mine. “Halen, we do not have any more wait time. Let’s go.”
Pulling in a steadying breath, I bolster my nerves and reach between my feet to grab the satchel. “I know I ask for a lot of favors.”
Her abrupt laugh fills the car. “Are you serious right now?”
“Deathly.” My pulse quickens as I glance down at the bag in my lap. “I need you to process some evidence for me,” I say, my serious tone sobering her expression. “This would be of a personal nature. The results given only to me.”
She hesitates a full three seconds before reaching across and taking the bag. “Keeping evidence from the feds?”
I bite the corner of my lip. “Something like that.”
With a lengthy sigh, she pushes a button to open the trunk of her car. “Then we should probably keep it out of their sight.”
Before she opens the door, I touch her arm briefly. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me,” she says. “I’m about to work my new expert consultant to death on this case so we can bring the victims home. You sort of work for me now.”
A smile lifts my mouth for the first time today. “Lead the way, boss.”
As we exit the car and look around the marshland, I realize it’s a different access point to the killing fields. There’s a boardwalk that leads through the reeds.
“Public hunting,” Devyn says to me, reading my inquisitive expression. “Not that anyone is ever really fined for hunting anywhere they damn well please, but this keeps the reports on gunfire down to a minimum.”
I nod slowly, my attention being diverted to a group of suits congregating around the entrance of the boardwalk. Agent Alister homes in on me right away.
His facial features reflect the provoked countenance he maintained for the better part of my debriefing. “No,” he says, heading us off. “This scene hasn’t been processed yet, and civilians”—he sends me a stern glare—“aren’t getting access.”
While Devyn duels with Alister over jurisdiction, I set my case down and stare out over the marsh, curious about the distance between this section of the killing fields and the ritual crime scene.
Then one word delivered from Alister drifts to my ears, and my whole body ices over.
Blood rushing my veins roars in my ears. Sounds are muffled to a low drone. I touch my chest, recalling too late that I somehow forgot to put my necklace on—and I can’t calm my mounting heart rate.
My legs are moving before my mind catches up to my actions. I dip beneath the yellow caution tape and hit the boardwalk at a sprint.
“St. James!” Alister shouts.
His quick footfalls pound the planks behind me.
As I near the taped-off section of the marsh, the sight nearly levels me. I come to a full stop, breathing heavily through the pain tearing into my side. Alister reaches me, but he doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t touch me.
The crime scene petrifies me where I stand.
Between two gnarled trees reaching toward the sky, the intricately woven string creates a webbing to display severed tongues. They’re strung in such craftsmanship, it’s obvious who put them there.
The overman.
But that’s not what has my heart battering my chest wall, and the terrified, angry tears threatening to fall from my eyes.
I fight the blurring offenders back as I clear my vision to take in every detail of the scene.
A male body has been erected amid the webbing of discolored tongues. The head has been decapitated and placed near the feet in the depressed reeds. The arms of the victim are staged in a manner to represent wings.
The face has been painted in black-and-white strokes to resemble the skull that appears on the face of the death’s-head hawkmoth.
“The Harbinger killer,” I say, my voice a weak rasp.
Catching his breath, Alister says, “You’re no longer employed by CrimeTech, Halen. Therefore, no longer a consultant on this case.” His use of my first name so informally states his feelings clearly. “Also, considering how closely you worked the Harbinger case before—”
“Dr. St. James’s services were recently retained by the HRPD,” Devyn says, cutting him off.
I can’t stop staring at the victim…at the face of a skull. I’ve fallen through a wormhole.
Talk, I mentally will my mouth to move. Open your mouth. I can’t fall to pieces right here. Not now. Not with what I’ve done… I can’t let Devyn fight my battles.
“The fact that I worked so closely on the Harbinger case is exactly why my expertise is needed here.” I inhale a fortifying breath, even as the ground beneath my feet all but gives way.
Devyn arches an eyebrow in satisfaction before she ducks under the crime-scene tape and claims a location to set up.
Bending over, I pull in a breath and close my eyes.
“Halen…?”
“I’m okay,” I say, chewing back the bile rising to my throat.
Alister sighs. “It’s been a long twenty-four hours. You’ve been through a lot.”
A laugh falls from my mouth. And I realize how inappropriate my behavior is—but last night won’t stop playing on a loop in my head…and now I’m staring at a new Harbinger killing…
Pushing the maddening thoughts aside, I thrust my sleeve up and read the words. I read them over and over until my head stops spinning.
I pull myself upright and lick my lips, still tasting Kallum. He’s all over me.
Resigned, Alister releases a heavy breath through his nose and crosses his arms. Turning to face me fully, he says, “So we’re working opposing sides, then.”
I tear my gaze away from the crime scene. “We don’t have to be.”
My meaning resonates in his light eyes, and the sharp brackets caging his features soften.
“When…” My voice falters, and I try again. “How recent is this scene?”
He shifts his attention to his team marking evidence. “The tongues? Could be as recent as last night, or early morning. The victim…the medical examiner needs to declare that.”
I swallow hard. “But likely before Landry went to the ritual crime scene,” I say, surmising.
His silence infuses the stagnant air of the marsh, and I can feel the tension of what’s not being said. His stance becomes even more guarded.
“What?” I ask, my heart beating around a dull ache in the center of my chest. “Alister. I’ve been working this case. I deserve to—”
“Landry didn’t commit suicide.” He hesitates before saying more. “More results are needed to confirm, but it’s looking like the man who attacked you was not the main perpetrator. The injection sites found on his body weren’t self-administered. Someone else had to inject the hemlock into him.”
It takes a moment for this information to process, and I slowly nod. “He was a pawn,” I say. Someone set him up.
“Or there’s more than one offender involved,” Alister says.
I realized something was amiss when I saw the sloppy stitch-work of the suspect’s eyes. There was just too much to process, and too much hope. Something I should know by now only clouds reason.
The suspect who designed the ritual site—the person who intricately weaved the eyes to the trees and who has methodically staged the scene before me—would never have done such a careless job on their own eyes.
And that suspect is still out there.
I look up into Alister’s wary face. “But that’s not all.”
With a heavy sigh, Alister reaches into the inseam of his suit blazer and removes a folded page wrapped in an evidence seal. “There’s this.”
Before I even unfold the page, I already know.
My hands shake as I hold the letter from the Harbinger killer written in block letters. After reading it over quickly, I lower the note next to my thigh.
“The original letter was found on the body.” He mumbles something and drives a hand through his hair. “I can’t believe there’s two of these goddamn psychopaths running around now.”
Dread knots my spine. “I think there always was.”
“What?” Alister barks, his fuse short.
I shake my head. “There’s something wrong with this town,” I say, crossing my arms to stave off the chill. “I hate the trees.”
He actually laughs. “Yeah, me too.”
I slip the copy of the letter into my pocket and step down from the boardwalk.
As I near the victim, I can’t take my eyes off the severed head. The face, the skull. But it’s the bones protruding from the bald head that stalls my blood inside my veins.
Each antler projecting from the victim’s head has been sawn off at the base.
The eyelids have been sewn together.
“He’s missing his eyes,” I say, sensing Alister’s presence at my back. “And his ears.”
“And his tongue,” Alister confirms. “And he has fucking antlers adhered to his head.”
This victim is one of the missing.
“You know I can find them.”
I swallow down the acid burning my throat. “Has the victim been identified?”
“Not officially,” he says. “But one of the local case workers did give us an initial ID.”
I turn to face him. “Who?”
“Detective Emmons,” he says, fixing his hands on his hips. “He believes the victim is his missing brother.”
Oh, god. I look away and stare out over the wasteland of reeds, at the eerie trees clawing the gray sky. At the evil rising over Hollow’s Row.
As gravity falls away, I seek something stable to latch on to, and find Devyn’s commiserating gaze across the marsh. She was right.
I brought something worse to her town.
“Thank you for including me in the updates,” I say to Alister, somehow finding the strength of will to hold myself together.
The sense of standing outside myself crashes over me, the riptide dragging me out.
Alister nods, but then a menacing glint flashes behind his gaze, and he says, “I’m thinking of bringing Professor Locke back as a consultant.”
I shake my head. Not in disagreement, but in disbelief. “Isn’t that a conflict of interest with the Harbinger killer?”
His eyebrows draw together in a confused continence. “Locke was never questioned in regard to those murders. He was also found innocent of—”
“Innocent by reason of insanity,” I interrupt, hearing the anxiety climb to my surface.
“Hmm. And yet you found him to be a necessary asset on my case.” He pushes in even closer, his voice a husky, stern whisper. “Or was that just an excuse to fuck him?”
I turn flaring eyes on him. “Excuse me?”
His smile is smug, and he wets his lips. He trails his fingers across the small of my back, out of sight from anyone else. “If that’s what you need to solve cases, maybe we can arrange something.”
I step away from him, beating down the rising revulsion. “I’ll confer with you when I have something to confer,” I say, then I head back to the boardwalk.
With numb hands, I call my ex-field manager. Before Aubrey can start with condolences of my layoff or reprimand me for not going through proper channels, I say, “I want all of my files transported to the address I send you.”
“Halen, I’m sorry—”
“Aubrey, send a zip file of my Harbinger case files to my email. Right now. Then send all copies of physical files to the storage facility address when I give it to you.”
After a lengthy pause, he concedes. “I am sorry for what happened. It wasn’t right.”
The sound of a plane flying overhead draws my attention to the sky, and my heart constricts painfully in my chest. The sigil carved into my thigh pulses with a searing heat.
I feel his breath on my skin.
I smell the woodsy scent of his intoxicating cologne.
His touch heats my flesh.
Ending the call, I close my eyes. I inhale a calming breath before I march toward my case with my crime-scene tools.
I’m the only one who knows Kallum wasn’t in his hotel room all night.
If there is evidence—even a fraction of a particle—I will find it.
I overlooked one crucial aspect of the story: Nietzsche’s character that appeared near the end of Zarathustra to corrupt the higher men.
The sorcerer.
The liar.
I have never believed in a higher power. Logic is my deity. The universe didn’t bring Kallum and I together—he did.
Kallum told me at the start that I had no idea what’s within my power.
He was right; I had no idea—but I’m figuring it out now.
If Kallum Locke wants to play on a bloody game board, we’ll play.
But I’m changing the fucking game.
