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Then I’m pulled back. Foster’s thick arm locks around my waist as he wrangles me away from the edge. He’s telling me not to look. Don’t look.
I fold myself against him, my bones weak. Every ache and pain alive and fueling my oncoming breakdown.
“Don’t look, London,” Foster says again. He grunts from the pain of his gunshot wound. “It’s over now. They’re both gone. You’re safe.”
I squeeze my eyes closed. I’m not sure if he’s trying to reassure me or himself. He puts the call in, and within minutes the police arrive, followed by the FBI. I’m soon draped in a coarse blanket, just like the morning I awoke and Grayson was gone.
Death and freedom are sometimes described as one and the same. Death is a form of freedom—freedom from the prison of life.
I aimed to set Grayson free. In the end, I succeeded.
25
Wherefore Art Thou
London
A villain. A hero. And a sacrifice.
That was the missing element—sacrifice—the reason why the story was never complete before. The finality of events tie it all together. The end.
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 acid 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 the infatuated 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.
