A young EMT urges me to sit on the back of the ambulance. She asks a series of standard-issue questions about my wellbeing, then begins tending to the obvious cuts, cautious not to disturb any potential evidence.
It hits me then that my dress will be confiscated.
I sniff back my anger and look up at the agent. “There is nosuch thing as an anonymous call,” I say, not attempting to hide the accusation in my tone.
His light brows create a furrow between his eyes. “No. There’s not,” he acknowledges. “The call led officials to an abducted boy who was being held in a warehouse. They then traced the call back to a wireless number in Grayson Sullivan’s name. This address was listed on the account.”
I turn my head, hiding my outrage. Grayson knew it would only be a matter of time before they found the location once they made the connection. It’s so blatant, it’s almost stupid. Not the act of a highly intelligent criminal. The FBI has to see that.
“The boy is all right?” I ask.
Nelson nods. “Yes. The parents are with him at the hospital.”
I tug the blanket tighter around my shoulders. “The man who kidnapped him is in that rancid container.”
“Jesus.” The agent drives a hand through his shaggy hair. “Did you witness this?”
I consider the question. Grayson isn’t inside the burning house. I know this just as the agent knows this fact.
The tests I endured revealed enough of the answers. No more hiding. No more lying. Grayson set fire to his life for me, so that I can start over. So that when it’s time,wecan start over.
I trust him.
He found me by fitting the puzzle pieces together, and that’s how I’m going to find him. This agent and any official working the Sullivan manhunt are my new closest friends.
“London?” the agent gains my attention as he presses the question.
I look toward the fire. “Yes, I witnessed the murder. I have your answers, agent.”
After a charged moment, he asks in a more subdued tone, “Is there anyone I can call for you?”
Normally, that question would provoke me. A painfulreminder of how alone I am. But being alone and lonely, as I once expressed to my patient, are two different things.
For now, I may have to be alone—but my match is out there, he’s waiting for me.
I shift my gaze back to the agent. “Yes, call the media. I have an announcement to make.”
Dig them up.
A lesson I have to put into action, so the rest of the answers will be unlocked.
31
THEREAFTER
GRAYSON
If hell had a point of entry, it would be Mize.
I crank the AC and towel off the sweat from the back of my neck, disgusted with the humidity. Then I turn up the volume, where I can hear her lovely voice over the blast of the vents. Twenty-four hours after her rescue, London is giving a press conference to the media.
My finger traces the delicate curve of her face, the screen a poor substitute for her soft skin. I drop my hand, curling it into a fist on my thigh.
“Though this announcement weighs heavily on my heart, I cannot bear its burden for one more day,” London says into the microphone. The flash of cameras doesn’t faze her. She was made for this world, flawless under pressure. A born actress.
I smirk as I settle on the sofa of my RV. To everyone else, Dr. Noble is a truly burdened soul. A survivor. So brave. To me, she’s a dark goddess that should be feared.
“During the most trying hours of my captivity, I experienced what can best be described as an acute psychological collapse.While the term ‘nervous breakdown’ is no longer clinically recognized, it remains the most accessible language to describe what I experienced.” She pauses, lowering her gaze to the floor. So demure. “As a result of the extreme duress, repressed memories were recovered—specifically of the man who abducted me.”
