I pocket the string and spin my chair around to my desk, decision made. I pick up the office phone to return the call from the message Lacy gave me hours ago.
Trust.
That’s what comes next, Grayson said. I move, he moves. We’re a shadow of each other, fused to one another through pain and pleasure and a hedonistic illness that rivals even the greatest serial killer teams.
We’re a duet—we belong together. One cannot exist without the other.
I can accept this, but I want to accept it with my eyes wide open.
The operator on the line transfers me to the forensics’ department, and before I can hang up, second-guessing myself, Calvin’s sure voice booms across the line.
“Hello, London. You send me the most interesting things, you know that?”
I do. Like pig’s blood when I’m doused with it after a trial. Calvin is my trusted contact in the local forensics’ lab. He works for money under the table. They barely pay him enough to make rent.
“Someone has to keep you busy,” I say, opening my desk drawer. I pull out the vial I keep locked up. “This city is pretty boring, otherwise.”
“Well, you’re making sure to see to that, aren’t you?”
After a moment of trivial conversation, Calvin jumps in. “Genealogy isn’t my specialty, but I was able to scratch up ahealthy report for you on the sample you sent over last week. Are you in front of your computer?”
I flip open my laptop. “Is it safe to send?”
“From the everyday hacker, yes. If that’s what you’re wary about. From the FBI? Probably not.”
A second of hesitation, then: “Send it.”
My apartment is under surveillance. The only safe and secure place for me to keep my research on Grayson is my practice. These walls are protected under patient-doctor confidentiality. In turn, the FBI may be able to trace and access my data, but they can’t use it. Not against me, or Grayson.
I hold up the vial. A few dark-brown hairs line the glass. I close my eyes and flash back to the moment Grayson thrust inside me and I gripped his hair, coming away with the strands.
I wrapped them around my finger—woven along my string—for safekeeping.
Pushing the memory away, I click open the report. “What am I looking at?”
Calvin goes over the basics: blood type, heritage, immediate family. Then he says, “But I figured you were looking for something a little more interesting. Considering the heritage, I ran the DNA through the international database and got a hit. A relative with a pretty lengthy record citing crimes against children came up.”
I locate the name on the report. “Shane Sullivan.” As I read, my stomach knots.
“Apparently, he was wanted in connection to a child sex trafficking ring. But when authorities finally caught up to him, he and his wife were found dead. Brutally murdered. Cut up into pieces. Pretty gruesome, huh?”
The police report attached to the document states their deaths were unnatural. A crude pendulum contraption was used to “dice” their bodies. Reading over the description, I realize it might’ve been more than an instrument to kill and mutilate; it’spossible it was designed to get answers. To work out a puzzle…and their failure resulted in their dismemberment.
A handmade puzzle constructed from wood chips was found at the scene in one of the large greenhouses. Images and words scrawled on the jigsaw pieces garnered no resolution for authorities to the murderer. The duo having many unsavory connections, the local police concluded it was a trade gone wrong. The case was closed with no further investigation.
What were you trying to puzzle out, Grayson?
“Thank you, Calvin. This is information is helpful. Oh, one more thing. Does it say how his mother died? I don’t see a death certificate.”
“That’s because there isn’t one,” he says. “She’s still alive.”
A cold dread whispers over my skin. “Okay. Thank you,” I manage, then hang up the receiver.
Before I lose my nerve, I cross my office and unlock the filing cabinet, where I keep confidential patient folders not stored on my computer. I pull out Grayson’s file and bring it to the desk.
Having a computer do the search would be easier, but not smart. Technically, the transcribed sessions in the folder are off record. I had shut the camera off—but I left the audio recording. I scroll down the dates, seeking one session in particular.
“My mother liked to watch. But we’re not talking about that. You’re not ready.”
