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Departure
Grayson
I only had theories. Wisps of the truth. Newspaper clippings and an old coroner report. But fearing a thing makes it come to a head much more quickly. Threatening her was all it took for London to be thrust back in time, to relive that one moment of ecstasy she allowed herself.
She’s a born killer.
It’s in our DNA. A genial road map of an exterminator.
Sounds like such an atrocity—to admit to being a killer. But we’re all born with purpose. Some to be doctors and save, others to be lawyers and advocate. So what’s wrong with our calling? The world is overpopulated and full of filth that needs picking off.
In this day and time, it’s a calling only fit for the torrid pit of hell.
And yet it can be beautiful. An art form.
I rest my head against the seatback, imagining a younger, freer London driving a perfect replica of her tattoo through her father’s neck. The strength it takes to do this—the sheer power, the lust for the kill. A thrill electrifies my blood.
The man who gave her the only life she’s known, and she snuffed out his in an instant. Her hair wild, skin drenched with sweat, eyes gleaming. And then the serene look on her face that followed. The same one I glimpsed as her body rolled with aftershocks of pleasure.
I want that back. I want to witness it over and over.
My pants tighten. I adjust myself, forcibly situating the aching member of my body that I refuse relief until my beautiful London submits.
“Half an hour till we land.” Officer Michaels glances over his shoulder. “When we reach the ground, just give me an excuse to put a bullet in your head.”
He says this lower, just so I can hear. His righteous anger brings a smile to my face. He was built for killing, too, but he’s denied himself that indulgence. Instead, choosing a profession that teases him, his trigger finger always at the ready.
What a painful existence.
I sit forward, and he noticeably tenses. “When the time comes, it won’t be you who gets that pleasure.”
His lip curls in revulsion. “Move back, con.”
I obey, turning my attention to the airplane window. Just above my head, a box of my meager belongings holds my ticket out of this life. No, Michaels won’t get his chance, because too many others are vying for their shot.
I lean close to the window to see the bend in the horizon. All that appears seamless and unending has a twist, and there is always an end.
New Castle welcomes me home.
“All rise. Court is now in session. The honorable Judge Arthur Lancaster is now presiding.”
A loud shuffle resounds through the courtroom. The pews packed full of the curious. The judge is a thin, aging man; his black robe swallows him. He orders the court to be seated, and I take a moment to glance around, seeking her eyes.
London’s not here.
My court-appointed lawyer nudges me to face forward. He delivered a black suit and blue tie to my cell this morning. He requires my tattoos to be covered, my hair neatly trimmed. As if my presentable appearance holds any sway over the jury.
I can see it on their faces: disgust. This case would need to be heard halfway around the world in a remote location to find a jury that doesn’t already know the grisly details.
“Don’t make eye contact with them,” my lawyer instructs. “Not yet. I’ll advise.”
Not a problem. There’s only one gaze I need to look into. She’ll be here. Her expert testimony won’t be heard until later, but London is typically present for her patients during the trial. I’m not a typical patient, however. She’s punishing me for my behavior—for knowing her sins.
She’ll be here.
My hands fist beneath the table.
My lawyer looks at me. “I won’t bring up the footage used in the previous trial unless we need to,” he says. “That may or may not work in your favor. But just to be clear—” his eyes stare into mine “—there are no recordings of these victims, correct?”
