Her gaze holds mine. “How did you know I would connect it?”
I shake my head. “I didn’t. That’s the part I can’t explain. The constant. The variable I’ve never been able to isolate or solve. We’re inescapable. The only prison I’ve never wanted to escape.”
She looks at the scarf in her hand, staring past the material to the key she’s hidden within. “It may not work.”
No. It might not. It probably shouldn’t. The chances that the key used to open her childhood cage would be a match to this cell is highly unlikely. I’ve already done the math. Calculated the odds. But like us, it can be warped and twisted into something perfect.
With a couple of crude modifications, London’s key will be an exact fit.
“We’re connected on some deeper level,” I say to her. “Through bars and cages and prisons…in the physical sense and the mind. That’s why you could never be expendable to me. You’re my match.”
Does she believe me? Some things can’t be manipulated. What I feel for her is real.
“I’m not the hero, London,” I say. “But I’m not the villain, either.”
“Times up, doctor,” the guard calls out.
London moves quickly. She rushes the cell and thrusts the scarf through the bars. “He’s going to take me,” she whispers. “Lethim take me.”
I grasp the scarf and try to touch her hand, desperation clawing painfully to the surface, before she’s snatched away.
“Get her back!”
Two guards push London flush against the wall, giving me only enough time to slip the key between my fingers—like a cheap magic trick.
“Drop it, Sullivan,” the officer orders.
I let the thin material go. The scarf drifts to the concrete floor soundlessly.
“Step back,” he instructs me.
As the guards escort London out, I keep sight of her for as long as I can. Until she disappears down the corridor. I move to the back wall of my cell as the cop unlocks the barred door and retrieves the scarf.
“Fucking groupies,” he mutters as he inspects it. He gives it a sniff. “Smells good, though. You got one hot doctor, Sullivan. I’m keeping this.” He sneers at me, and I let him.
Once they leave, I settle in the corner. I run the pad of my thumb along the teeth of the key. Anticipation twists my mouth into a smile. I wait until the jailhouse goes still to start making the alterations to the key, using the edge of the steel sink to file down the teeth.
In less than two hours, an armored truck will arrive with a small army to escort me to prison. They’re taking their time, making the adequate preparations. Making sure I have no chance of escape.
And Nelson is going to take her.
London’s only chance is if Nelson is terrified to touch her.
I work at the key, sweat leaking into my eyes. The burn satisfying.
When it’s time, I go. And I make sure I do enough damage on my way out that Nelson knows I’m coming for blood.
22
THE BETWEEN
LONDON
Amonth later
The rules of psychological warfare are different for everyone. How far someone will go to demoralize and dominate their opponent is dependent on their level of commitment. Their desire and need to win—to make their enemy suffer.
When violence runs in your blood, the compulsion to kill is an inherent part of you. It’s intimate and unruly; a lover possessed with only one feeling, one yearning, stopping at nothing to obtain the lead.
