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At first, I’d hover around a corner, waiting to intervene if she took a step toward that door. But as the weeks wore on, I rationalized this was only her process to alleviate the guilt. As long as she tells herself this is her course, then she can postpone as long as necessary.
We all lie to ourselves. Most lies are done for self-preservation. Our egos too fragile to view our insignificance within the universe candidly. Some lies are dangerous, when they delve into delusion to negatively impact others.
No matter what she needs to make herself believe, I will never let Blakely serve time for someone so vile and irrelevant as Ericson Daverns.
Taking into account her stubbornness, I don’t reveal this yet. Instead, I want her reasoning to further the analysis. “What has stopped you?” I ask.
She rolls onto her side. Her look is molten on my skin. “I can’t go to prison like this, Alex. I’ll either go crazy, be medicated out of my mind…or I’ll remove myself permanently. That’s the only control I’ll have.”
The sounds of the city outside the window become a muted buzz of static as the air thickens with a tense charge. Blakely’s threat is delivered with conviction, establishing a fear I wasn’t aware existed.
“You have all the power,” I tell her, handing over my control that easily. “You’ve always had it.”
She maintains eye contact. “Tell me what you’re planning.”
I don’t hesitate. “Frame Brewster for Ericson’s murder. Then he’ll go down for the rest of the kills.” Which is why I linked the methodology to Ericson’s murder in the first place. I didn’t have a target scapegoat in mind at the time, but I knew I needed one for Blakely in the event she tried to confess to the murder.
In that regard, Brewster is the perfect fall man.
She flops onto her back. “Right. Giving Grayson what he wants, while eliminating Brewster as a threat.”
“If there was ever a contender for the dark triad on the dirty dozen scale, it’s Brewster,” I say. “He’s an elite psychopath. He has no connection to my sister, therefore the authorities won’t draw a connection to Grayson. And with Brewster behind bars, he’s less likely to establish any connection to you for Ericson’s murder.”
“Less likely,” she repeats, then drops her head my way. “You like your numbers. ‘Less likely’ isn’t math you can accept. You’re holding something back.”
My gaze drifts over her captivating features, and I want nothing more than to lie to her, to let her believe we can eliminate our problems so easily. Ultimately, if she’d agree to leave with me right now, fly to another country and vanish, the whole situation would disappear and resolve itself.
However, selfishly running away won’t help her realize her potential.
Red seeps through the bandage on my hand, and I lift it before blood can stain the sheet. “I should redress my hand,” I say, but her soft touch on my arm—that skin-to-skin contact—prevents me from moving, from even breathing.
“Just tell me,” she says.
“You’re right,” I say, inspecting the damage to my hand. Blakely took advantage of my weakness, which reaffirms what I’m about to tell her. “Brewster won’t take being framed so gracefully. He’ll dig until he finds what he needs to mount a defense, which means you’ll always be in danger—” I lift my gaze to hers “—as long as he’s alive.”
She sits forward and links her arms around her covered knees. “You’re forgetting that I’m confessing to the crime, which completely voids that hypothetically absurd idea anyway. So, what else do you got?”
I fell in love with her fire, so much so I welcomed the burn, but in moments like this, her obstinance makes me want to either punch a wall or pin her to the bed.
“Memory and time,” I say, sitting up to join her. “They’re a bitch. You can’t undo either, and you can’t exert control where you’re at an equal risk of losing it.”
The same infuriating impatience must plague her as she shoves her fingers into her hair. “Alex, what the hell? Don’t speak to me in riddles tonight.”
“You can’t confess to Ericson’s murder,” I say. “They won’t believe you.”
Her gaze travels to me, and it’s there in her stunned expression, the understanding between us. She knows I’m capable of altering evidence. If she hasn’t already figured out why I targeted the victims on her list, then she’s piecing it together now.
“I can still try,” she says, attempting to call my bluff. “A confession from me, the person hired to take revenge on Ericson, would be enough to muddy the water.” She shrugs. “And if nothing else, it would alleviate my conscience.”
I run my hand over my hair, anxious to treat my hand. “You can always try, and you might even succeed. Or you could wind up in an institution. Someone with a weighty title and influence, like the renowned Dr. Noble, could make that happen easily enough.”
She throws the covers off and slips out of bed.
Battered and bone-weary, exhaustion plucks at my patience. “Come back to bed.”
“I’m leaving,” she says, searching for her shoes. “Maybe I’ll just get out of this whole fucking crazy city.”
I toss off the covers and climb out of bed. I have her in my arms before she’s able to get to the bedroom door. Her fight is weak; she gives up easily as I band my arms around her. She’s just as exhausted as I am.
