As far as the reports go, the hero of the story echoed my account of the night, declaring the death of both villains. Foster is a credible witness.
And authorities needed a credible witness.
Forensics couldn’t reconstruct the remains for identification. By the time they arrived to extract Nelson and Grayson from the container unit, the highly corrosive solution had dissolved the bodies. There was no DNA to analyze. What bone fragments they recovered were too degraded and disintegrated upon examination. No teeth to match to dental records.
There was only a psychologist and an ex-detective to account for the remains—what was left. A sludge of mutilation.
After twelve hours of questioning, I was released and, bags and office already packed, left immediately to escape theinfatuated press. I heard there’s already a book in the works, and possibly a movie script.
The world is enthralled with what is impossible to comprehend.
A special agent with the FBI goes off kilter and resorts to killing criminals to better understand the killers he hunts. A convicted serial killer who murdered the deviant and sadistic, who in turn defeats the disturbed agent by taking both their lives. One obsessed detective who arrived in the nick of time to help save the psychologist that both deranged men were transfixed by.
Sounds like a ridiculous work of fiction.
Only I lived it—and now my name is synonymous with the Angel of Maine.
We’re a duet. Forever linked.
I breathe in a deep inhalation, filling my lungs with the dry, warm air of San Francisco. We’re experiencing an Indian summer, and the weather is temperate and the air clean. Denoting a new beginning.
I make sure I walk the same path every day. Developing a pattern. I take the same route to the coffee shop, and then the park, and then back to my three-story townhouse. It’s seated on a corner, not far from the bustle of the financial district. I live in the top apartment. My new practice is on the bottom level, after I converted the garage into an office and therapy room.
It’s easy to get lost in this city.
I turn the corner and head into the park. Coffee in hand, I make my way to the bench under a large oak that I’ve claimed for the past six weeks. I watch mothers stroll their babies along the paths. Dogs race the grassy hill as their owners toss toys to be fetched.
I’m nearly done with my coffee and turn to toss the cup in the bin when a rare breeze floats over the park. A chiming pricks my ears. I freeze, waiting to hear the clanging notes again.
They sound, and I look up into the branches of the tree.
Two silver keys twinkle above.
My heart lurches.
I stand on the bench and reach high overhead. I clutch the keys, snapping them free from the branch. The small objects feel heavy in my palm, the cold metal quickly matching my heated skin as my heart knocks painfully against my breastbone.
So as not to deviate from my pattern, I slip the keys into my jacket pocket and walk the familiar route to my townhouse. My fingers touch the keys along the way, tracing the grooves, the imprint of letters and numbers.
Once inside my office, I lower the blinds and dim the lights. Then I place the keys side-by-side on my desk, and study the numbers. “A storage unit,” I say aloud.
It was my choice to select the puzzle locks. And once that idea took root, it only made sense to complete the trap design with a magical element that paid homage to one of the greatest escape artists.
A combination of Houdini and Shakespeare. I’ve always harbored a flare for the dramatic.
Juliette planned to fake her death—but she didn’t put in enough planning beforehand. Had she had a little more patience, she and her Romeo would’ve ridden off into the sunset together.
I open my laptop and connect to the secure connection. The one Grayson developed and left for me on a USB drive that I discovered taped next to my key in the filing cabinet. I search the numbers on the keys, locating which storage facility they belong to.
When I questioned Nelson about how he discovered the Blue Clover, he said I told him. This is true. I led him there with the notes I kept behind my Dali. I planted the clue in the one place I knew he’d find, and that he’d keep hidden from the FBI. I even left Nelson the design for the trap itself. A basic contraption I designed myself using all the elements of Grayson and myselfcombined. A trap so perfectly enveloping our team dynamic, that Nelson wouldn’t be able to resist the compulsion to make it his own. To steal it. To use it against us.
It was a huge risk.
I wasn’t sure Nelson would take the bait. He was devolving faster by that point, and by the time he sent for me, requesting my appearance at the Blue Clover, I knew any number of things could go wrong.
Not all the details were worked out the night Grayson and I made love in the abandoned garage. Only one finite aspect needed to be secured in order for the rest of the pieces to align—for the dominos to topple accordingly.
I gather my purse and stuff the keys inside, then lock up my townhome. This time, I make sure to use a route I’ve never taken before. I catch a trolley to the other side of town. I stop into a coffee house, noting every person who enters after me. When I leave, no one follows.
