AllFreeNovel
Share Us
All love is selfish and feeds ego. Our mind’s way of keeping us relevant in a world that doesn’t care if we jump off a cliff.
As such, I did what I had to do today to prevent the woman I love—that Ineed—from jumping off her cliff.
I slip my phone into my pocket and cock my head. “This morning, you needed incentive,” I say. “Do you think Grayson or Brewster or any of his thugs will stop with just you? They’ll come after your family to get what they want.”
She levels me with a fierce glare. “Which you made sure of by implicating my mother.” She grabs the shears off the workbench and approaches me. “Chicken or egg, Alex. Which came first?” She takes hold of my tie, drawing me closer. “Would anyone be in danger if I’d never met you?”
She snaps the shears, cutting my tie off below the knot.
Tossing the garden tool on the bench, she turns her back to me and heads toward the door. “Grayson gave you two weeks. I’m giving you five days. Then I want you out of my life forever. Or else next time, it won’t be your stupid tie.”
* * *
Devising the plan was relatively simple. I just had to decide which psychopath I wanted to frame for the murders: Grayson or Brewster.
Elimination is the objective.
In order for Blakely to remain clear of any implication to Ericson’s murder, all three players—Grayson, London, Brewster—need to be removed from the board.
And in order for Blakely to accept her new path and existence, she needs to embrace her design.
She’s the perfect calibrated weapon, after all.
Her years spent honing her skills in the art of revenge, coupled with her extreme emotions, fashioned a masterwork not even I could’ve imagined.
Victor Frankenstein would either be impressed, or terrified by my creation.
But with her unstableness at this early stage, I have to go slowly with her. In essence, direct her toward her main objective without overloading her system, as was the case with Ericson.
I was too weak at the conception of my project to accept the truth. The end result was never going to be about curing psychopaths. Grayson said it himself, a cure is not realistic. No, it’s not about curing him at all—it’s about killing him, and all others like him.
After all, that is the only true method to cure the world of psychopaths.
My failures with every other subject helped me realize why Blakely was a success, and how I need to utilize her rarity.
The moment she gave in to her overpowering emotions and took a life, she flipped a switch in her DNA. Her genetic makeup is that of a killer. All the proof was there in her brain scans. When compared to those of infamous killers, Blakely’s scans were very closely matched.
She was right that we’ll never know if she would’ve crossed the line prior to the treatment. Most psychopaths never commit murder. Brain scans can’t predict future actions.
But as I stare at her from across my lab, watching the way she examines my workspace, taking in every detail, I know undoubtedly I was meant to find her.
The fates wove our life threads together, and now we’re bound to one another—creator and creation—whether by fate or doom. That is our future.
I remove my glasses and set them next to my laptop. Ever since we left her parents’ penthouse yesterday, she’s been distracted, detached. Plotting the scheme used to be her favorite part of her revenge jobs. I know this plan is extreme by comparison, but I need to figure out what’s holding her back and remedy it.
She notices my attention on her. “You were this close to me the whole time, just a few blocks away.” She turns and hoists herself up onto the gurney. “I could sense you watching me. What’s that called again? You told me the first time we met.”
“Scopaesthesia,” I say, though I never told her the actual name of the phenomenon, just remarked on how she was highly attuned to the ability to sense being watched. Another of the skills in her arsenal which makes her perfect.
“Right.” She nods slowly. “Alex and his big, smart words.”
Pushing back in the metal chair, I cross my arms. “We should go over the plan.”
She hops off the gurney and wheels the stool Grayson last used to the metal table, evidently ready to participate.
I put my glasses back in place and look at the screen. I have dates and locations recorded based on what I gleaned from Brewster’s schedule. Which, of course, can and probably will change over the subsequent days. You can’t count on a career criminal to keep to his Google calendar, but it should give us enough information to map his next steps.
Deciding on the order of events came down to behavior. Brewster is an ideal victim for the Angel of Maine serial killer. He runs a drug ring, pumping toxins into the city. So a simple trap designed around a supplier who’s forced to overdose on his own supply—while not as gruesome as some of Grayson’s kills—is believable. And that’s all it needs to be.
