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I lost control when my emotions owned me.
You don’t have to be a psychopath to do horrible things—succumbing to our fears can turn us villainous.
Emotions or not, Alex was right, I am the same person.
The heightened sense of thrill courses my veins, almost bringing me to tears. I no longer feel lost, alone. Aimless. Blakely was inside me the whole time, just waiting for me to find her.
I grab my bag and phone as I head to the door.
When I was sitting across from her, London told me that, as long as I was successful in handling Alex, then Grayson had no need to intervene.
She wasn’t giving me her assessment of her patient; she was giving me a warning.
When Alex made the threat that London could have me institutionalized, he hinted to a very crucial aspect of the duo’s relationship. She’s the one in control. She wields the power.
London is the key.
Alex made a deal with Grayson, but I can make a deal with her.
I make the call.
When she answers, I say, “It’s done.”
A pause fills the line before she replies. “Hello, Blakely. I’m so glad you decided to finally reach out to me.”
I walk around a food cart, the pungent scent of overcooked street meat smacking me in the face, and it’s still a more favorable greeting than London’s.
“The situation has been handled,” I say to her, keeping the conversation short and on point. “Alex is out of the picture. I took care of him. I wassuccessful.” I stress the word to reiterate our conversation.
Silence stretches across the line, then: “What are you going to do now?”
Paused at a crosswalk, I hold up the microchip and squint at the numbers too tiny to discern with the naked eye. “I don’t know, honestly. I was thinking about retiring from my current profession, but—” I snap a quick picture of the chip and text it to her number “—first, I might see if this serial number matches any metadata connected to Brewster’s case. You know, just in case forensics overlooked anything.”
My threat is very clear.
Grayson isn’t off the hook yet, and neither is she. The DA could make a very creative case for how a serial killer and his psychologist aided Brewster in eliminating his shady connections.
Here is our ultimatequid pro quo.
As long as we each have something or someoneto lose, we can reach an agreement.
“I think that’s unnecessary,” London finally says. “I’m sure the authorities have everything they need to make their case.”
Checkmate.
“I’m moving out of the country,” she continues. “It’s a shame we didn’t get to have another session before I fly out. I truly wanted to help you solve your dilemma. Of course, I can always analyze the data remotely, send you my findings.”
My phone vibrates, and I lower the device to open a text. A picture of a USB drive—Alex’s USB drive—appears on the screen.
A humorless laugh festers inside me. London is keeping the status quo for damn sure.
Alex admitted he can’t recreate the treatment. He’s failed with three subjects since me. The terrifying truth may be that he even failed with me.
My dilemma is whether or not Alex’s torture treatment is the reason my neural pathways altered, or if my feelings for him proves I’m a disempathetic type, what London brought to my attention during our meeting.
This is why Grayson stole Alex’s formula. London wants to conduct her own research into the cure of psychopaths.
And I was going to be her control, her basis for comparison.
