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Everything Alex touches, he destroys.
“You need me,” he says.
“I need you to get out of my way.” I push against his bare chest, frustration thrumming hot and impatient along my nerves.
His hands circle my wrists, his fingers aligning with the bruised imprints he put there. “Blakely, there’s no other choice. An actual deranged, psychotic serial killer is upset with the fact that we connected him to an investigation.”
“Your investigation.Yourbodies,” I clarify. But what he’s saying resonates, leaving ice in my veins to replace the lingering heat.
“Our bodies, baby. You’re a killer.”
The realization is quick and smarting, like tape being ripped away from skin. I’m tied to his murders because hemade sureto connect me by copying the MO of Ericson’s death. Which makes it look not so much like an unfortunate, random mugging.
“Oh, my god, you sick fuck. I couldn’t figure out why you were targeting my revenge marks. Why you weren’t disposing of the bodies. You did it to link us together. Some twisted union your demented brain thinks will…what? Unite us?”
He doesn’t deny my allegation. “Your targets were meticulously vetted,” he says in defense. “I could’ve wasted days or even weeks searching for new subjects.”
“So it was a matter of convenience,” I say, sarcasm layered thick in my tone.
A flash of annoyance passes over his features, and I twist my forearms free of his grip. He knows something more—he’s keeping some vital piece from me.
“I have a plan,” Alex says, but my thoughts are too far away to really hear him.
I’m searching the memory of my conversation with London for anything that was said, anything that was hinted to or—
I yank my tote around and open it. I plunder through the bag until I unearth my billfold and unzip the side compartment where I placed London’s business card.
A confused expression crosses his face as I flip the card over and hold it up to the florescent light. “That fucking bitch,” I say.
The card stock is too thick to see through, but I note the weight, then I tear it in half.
A small computer chip, like the tracker we used on the call girl to mic her, is hidden between the thick card stock.
London bugged me.
I’m not sure if she can hear what we’re saying, or if it’s simply a GPS device, but I’m certain she’s been spying on me. I told her about Alex killing his subjects with the experiment. Then Grayson shows up to torture Alex.
Wordlessly, I stalk to the broken stall and grab a wad of tissue, then proceed to wrap the chip. “Until I can learn more.” I crumple the paper to muffle any potential feed and bury it in my bag.
“I’ll analyze it properly later,” Alex says, arrogantly making the assumption we’ll be together.
I hold his gaze for a long beat. The weight of the shifting tide crashes down on me, and I’m trapped in his undertow.
Who is my enemy?
Should I run? Escape Alex? Escape the murders, the killers, and all the dangers suddenly hunting me?
Before Alex entered my world, I never ran from anyone or anything. But I already tried to run once, and I couldn’t escape him. This time, I have to face my fears.
I don’t know why London felt the need to spy on me. Maybe she gets off on interfering with her patients’—or prospective patients’—lives. Or maybe she’s simply a pawn in a deranged trap orchestrated by her patient. Maybe we’re all being manipulated.
Whatever the truth is, it doesn’t change what we have to do—whatIhave to do.
I feel the warmth of Alex’s touch as he takes my hand in his. “You’re coming home with me.”
35
LOVESICK
