Twisted (Burbank and Parker 1)

“It’s exquisite—pure, unscathed, perfect. I’ve heard stories about it all my life.”

“From Gaia?”

“Yes. She read to me every night, long stories of splendor and eternal life. If you had seen the way her face would light up when she’d read, she was totally transformed. I always swore to myself that someday I’d see that euphoria on her face again, this time for good.”

“So you’re facilitating it.” Sloane smiled. “What a loving son you are.”

“I try.”

“Does Gaia know all the details of our ascent?”

“No. I want to surprise her. Actually, no one knows, not even Hera. I usually talk things over with her. But this

time…I chose not to.”

“Would you be willing to talk them over with me?” Sloane asked. “I’d be happy to listen.”

He became very calm, as a soft, peculiar smile touched his lips. “You’re always a good listener. Even when I didn’t speak, you heard me. I called just to hear the sound of your soothing voice. I’d been deprived of that joy since I realized your FBI friends must have put a trace on my cell phones. That’s why I took your name off the invitation list to Gaia’s retirement party. I needed a reason to call you. To connect with my twin. And to make sure you were coming. I had to reinforce my connection with you, even though I knew we’d soon be connected for eternity. That’s why I visited your home, lay on your bed. Does that make any sense?”

“Yes.” Sloane feigned understanding. “To strengthen our connection, would you please share your plans with me? Tell me about our upcoming ascent.”

Luke paused, considering her request. “I’m not ready to fully trust you—not yet. However, I do trust you to guard a secret. Also, you’re strong. You don’t scare easily. So, as my twin, I believe you’re the right one to share this with.” His gaze flickered over her. “But first, you need a chiton. There are several in your closet upstairs. I’ll bring one down, since you’re not ready to be transferred upstairs. I’ll also bring you some lunch. You slept through the usual hour that it’s served.”

“What time is it now?”

“Three forty-five. Lunch is served promptly at noon, unless I’m away. In that case, provisions are made.”

The mattress Sloane was sitting on was lumpy and uncomfortable. She wriggled a bit, then winced. “Delphi, I understand why you don’t fully trust me yet. But is there any way you can keep me confined to your satisfaction without using these shackles? They’re cutting into my flesh, especially my injured hand.”

That bothered him. “Your injury—I didn’t think of that. Very well. When I return, I’ll bring an alternative to the shackles.” His gaze hardened again, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides, emanating leashed violence. “Let me state this in advance. I know how intelligent you are. And also how skilled you are at Krav Maga. In fact, I know everything about you. So don’t try anything. Not now. Not when I return. Not at all. You won’t succeed and it will break my heart to have to kill you. But don’t doubt that I will, if you force my hand.”

“I don’t plan to do that,” she assured him. “I’m resourceful, but I’m not stupid.”

“Very well, I’ll be back shortly.”

Lillian Doyle’s Apartment

West 171st Street, New York City

4:55 P.M.

Derek pulled on his gloves and entered the apartment. ERT was already doing its job. There was music playing from somewhere inside. The Pachelbel Canon, Sloane’s favorite. He headed toward it, then paused as one of the ERT agents came up to him.

“Parker, you won’t believe this,” he said, pointing. “Go take a look. I didn’t touch a thing so you could get the full impact.”

Derek walked into the spare bedroom, where the music was coming from. Empty. Except for the desk positioned directly across from the doorway. But that desk said it all.

Stunned, Derek came to a dead halt, his gaze glued to the images on the laptop screen.

A slideshow of photos synchronized with the music. Images only of Sloane. Not just at work and at home, but everywhere. And not just current photos, but some that went way back, starting with her days in the D.A.’s office. Luke had obviously become obsessed with her from the very first time they met. He’d kept a month-by-month digital photo album of all her activities, all her meetings with friends, all her time in her backyard—romping with the hounds or shooting at her archery range.

He even had pictures of her in Cleveland—both on the job and off—and at Quantico, where he’d filmed her arriving and departing. The psycho had followed her everywhere, living her life, capturing it for posterity.

There were even a few shots of Sloane and Derek together, strolling, talking, and laughing. A big white “box” had been superimposed over Derek’s portion of the photo. Fortunately, Luke hadn’t gotten any intimate shots, but just the fact that he’d been stalking and obsessing over Sloane for all these years made Derek want to puke.

The segment ended with a blank frame that simply said: For Artemis.

The next segment began.