“You’re welcome to any and all evidence, Dr. Noble. I’ll have it forwarded to you.”
“Thank you. I appreciate that.” I start to leave, feeling this is a proper place to end the conversation, but he snags the arm of my coat.
“It’s my hope that once you’ve reviewed the evidence, you’ll know the right thing to do.”
I pull out of his grasp and cross my arms. “The right thing to do, detective, is my job. And no amount of coercion from you or any other New Castle official will prevent me from doing that.”
He holds up a hand in defense. “No one’s threatening you, doctor. We’re all on the same side, aren’t we? The side that wants justice for the victims.” He tosses his cigarette down and stubs it out with the toe of his boot.
I huff a derisive laugh. “Wanting justice for the victims doesn’t give anyone a license to kill with the death penalty, Detective Foster,” I say, stepping around him. “Now please contact my office for any further inquiries.”
He waits until I reach the bend in the trail to call out, “He drove an icepick through her skull. But that’s not what killed her.”
My steps slow, but I don’t stop.
“She bled to death, Dr. Noble.”
With escape in sight, I push through the latticed door and hit the sidewalk, my hurried steps carrying me toward a private alcove between buildings. I lean against the brick, inhaling clipped breaths as pain pulses in my lower back, climbing along my spine to grip my head.
“Dammit.” I press my fingers to my aching temples.
I’m not easily shaken. I’ve contended with far more aggressive officers when combatting the prosecution on cases. But Foster caught me off guard. I was already in a vulnerable state before his intrusion, and he knew what he was doing.
Death due to a brain injury is an especially slow and brutal way to die. You don’t just bleed to death—not the way he stated.Swelling inside the skull crushes the brain, severing the function of vital organs.
It’s excruciating.
And yet, I can see the genius in her murder, her death designed to match her crime. There’s no doubt in my mind that Grayson is the perpetrator, that he devised a trap fitting for the doctor to end her life.
Alarmingly, that’s not what disturbs me. At least, not in the way the detective intended.
My connection to Grayson goes beyond mere transference. Every time I look into his eyes, I see a reflection—not of myself, but of the blood-stained girl I buried long ago, a hollow echo from my past.
With trembling fingers, I touch the jagged scar along my palm, tracing the rough outline of the key, as warped and faded as the girl who inked it there. Grayson has no idea what he’s stirring awake.
I’m either in danger of falling for the devil, or I’m the devil herself.
11
NEXUS
LONDON
The first eyes I remember looking into were kind. Eyes I trusted. Eyes that promised safety, and protection, and a love that would never betray me.
Only later did I learn that eyes could lie—that the most trusting eyes can be full of deception. That their beauty could mask dark secrets, tenderness concealing the deepest cruelty.
As I meet Grayson’s pale blue gaze across my therapy room, I feel that same treacherous pull, the desire to be lured into their beauty, to surrender to their raw honesty.
There are no eyes more captivating, or deceptive, than those of a killer.
“The man who supports his madness with murder is a fanatic,” Grayson says, disrupting my thoughts. “Would you consider yourself a fanatic, or simply passionate, Dr. Noble?”
I straighten in my seat, taking small, measured breaths to ease the pressure in my lower back. Ever since my confrontation with the detective yesterday evening, I’ve been in a full-blown flare-up.
I adjust my glasses and say, “Is there a reason you’re quoting Voltaire to me, Grayson?”
A striking smile spreads across his lips, touching those glacial-blue eyes. “You impress me, London.”
