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BLAKELY
My plane touches down at eight-thirty on the west coast. The San Francisco airport teems with eager tourists, arriving in shorts and tanks and pasty skin anxious for a sunburn. It takes me half an hour of wandering the airport maze to get to the outside world, where a hot and humid blast of coastal air hits me like a wet blanket.
I Uber to the downtown hotel I rented for the night. Located only blocks from Union Square, the luxury hotel boasts views of the cityscape, the bay, Alcatraz, Golden Gate and the Bay Bridge. While the suite’s terrace view is quite breathtaking, I’m here for none of that.
My phone pings with a text. I set my wineglass on the marble table and slide the message open. Tension knots my belly as I reply to the text, then call down to the lobby.
Before I ventured to Devil’s Peak, I had sent an email to the renowned criminal psychologist Dr. London Noble. In vague reference to myself and without providing any names or identifying particulars, I detailed Alex’s theory on psychopaths, his gruesome experiment, and the fact the convicted serial killer Grayson Sullivan had been the direct catalyst.
To be honest, the email sounded insane. I didn’t expect a response from this woman, who has been through much of her own suffering at the hands of a deranged killer. So I was shocked when Dr. Noble invited me to speak with her in person.
I mean, I could’ve just scheduled a session with the psychologist. Shown up at her townhouse office and sprang the whole horror story on her right in her therapy room, using the doctor/patient confidentiality clause and demanding all her answers. And normally, that’s exactly what I would have done. Treated her as an obstacle to be removed in order to obtain my objective. Quick. Easy. Direct.
I reach for the Cabernet, take a long sip, savoring the robust flavor and heated buzz rushing my veins. My fingertips turn white against the wineglass as my grip tightens.
I’m not the samequick, easy, directwoman. I second-guess every thought and decision, my emotions and brain at war with each other.
I feel fuckingcrazy, and I wonder if this is how women feel all the time. Questioning themselves, analyzing every damn thought, doubting their every choice.
If so, they have my fucking sympathy. No wonder most of my revenge-seeking clients were women.
A low knock sounds at the door. Two slow, light raps that ratchet my heart rate. I walk to the entrance and, rolling my shoulders back, slip into a new frame of mind and open the door.
Dr. Noble looks exactly like her professional picture online. Long dark hair braided over one shoulder. A sophisticated yet sexy black pencil skirt suit. Black-rimmed glasses. Refined and polished. Beautiful.
“Blakely Vaughn?” she asks with a serious expression that states why she’s here.
I nod once. “Thank you for meeting with me, Dr. Noble. Please, come in.” I step aside to allow her access.
As she enters the suite, she sets her leather handbag—Prada, I note—on the entryway table. “I prefer if you call me London. What we’re about to discuss negates the need for formalities and polite etiquette.”
I close the door. “Fair enough.” I head straight for the marble table and take a slug of wine, then raise the bottle toward her in offer. “Need a glass?”
A smile flits across her delicate lips. “I like that you inquire if Ineedinstead ofwant. Very decisive. Says a lot about you.”
In true shrink fashion, she doesn’t actually answer the question. I pour her a big glass. “Analyzing me already.”
She shrugs, unapologetic. “That’s who I am.” She accepts the wine. “So, who are you, Blakely?”
I set the bottle down with a resoundingclinkagainst the marble. “That’s a damn good question.”
Head canted, she studies me with drawn eyebrows. Then she takes a sip of wine before she seriously begins. “You were born a psychopath.”
“Yes. A rather happy one.”
“This doctor…” She moves toward the sofa, places her drink on the end table, and unbuttons her blazer before taking a seat. “I hesitate to regard him as such, but you said he’s a biomedical scientist. He develops cures for diseases.”
I inhale a deep breath. “Yes.”
London crosses her legs slowly as her gaze assesses me. “He found your psychopathic nature to be a disease. And he…cured you.”
“Yes,” I say in confirmation.
“What you’re claiming is impossible.”
“And yet, here I am. The product of the good, unhinged doctor.” Smile tight, I add, “Because Grayson Sullivan murdered his sister.”
“Interesting.” Her expression is neutral, revealing no hint as to how the mention of her tormentor’s name affects her.
