Born, Madly (Darkly, Madly 2)

She nods vehemently, like she’s been told this before. “I know you. You’re the man on the TV.”

My mouth kicks up into a grin. She didn’t say bad man. I glance again at her mother, and say, “Are you a good secret keeper?”

She nods, her silky hair bobbing.

“Good. You can’t tell anyone but your mother this, okay?” When she agrees, I say, “Tell Mommy that the man from the TV said to stop sticking needles in her arm and drink a big coffee before she leaves work, or else he’ll pay her a visit soon.”

Her dark eyes widen, and she smiles. “Promise?”

I give her a wink. “Our secret, remember?” Then I stand and grab the cable, deciding to get off before the next stop. The early morning work crowd will be piling on, and I’m too drained to risk another Angel of Maine sighting.

I enter my apartment just as the sun rises. The small downtown studio is nothing like my typical haunts. It’s not spacious or inviting. It’s efficient, and the few essential items I need are easily stored on the inlaid shelves near the door. Ready to grab on a dash out.

I unload my pockets—knives, wire, tape—into the drawer beneath the shelving. I keep the sculpting wire on me in case a situation calls for a less messy means of removal. I cover my tools with a cloth, then tuck Larry’s cash into the paper bag I keep there, too.

Cash is always a necessity while on the run. I’m not a saint, despite what the press is trying to depict me as. One needs money to survive. My victims no longer had need of their money. I do.

I had to ditch the RV. It’s too conspicuous to keep a moving location along coastal towns. People remember seeing an RV; townies don’t like strangers.

I paid the landlord cash for a short-term lease on the apartment just yesterday. Week to week. I’m Jeffery Kinsey to him. And as long as I have the cash, I’m of no more importance than his loud, nagging wife who berates him down the hall.

There’s two windows: One for keeping watch, and one for escape if necessary. I keep security cameras recording at all times, from every angle of the room and outside the main door.

I shower to rid myself of Larry’s stench, not because I need to remove the evidence. Criminals make mistakes all the time—even intelligent ones. Stupid, unfortunate mistakes. The taskforce will ponder it for a while; how the escaped convict they’ve been chasing for weeks, eluding them at every turn, suddenly makes such a grave mistake by allowing a victim to scratch him. Leaving epithelial cells beneath the vic’s fingernails.

Because the MO is so different from mine, authorities will need the DNA evidence in order to link the kill to me. My gift to them.

Then the theories will start. The deviation in method spurring specialists to speculate on why my MO has suddenly shifted so drastically. According to the specialists, I’ll be regressing, devolving.

There are natural stages of advancement, and one should always be evolving. My first kills, I left the bodies on display. I was a young, cocky amateur, and I wasn’t above bragging back in the day.

I got smarter, of course. Pride comes before a fall and all that, so I began discarding my victims. I buried them in remote locations. The next logical progression in methodology would be to destroy the remains. Leave no evidence. No body, no crime. Fire, as we well know, is a destructive force—the earth’s natural cleansing agent.

After I burned my hidden kill spot, even the taskforce could make an intelligent assumption as to my next level of progression.

This deterioration should niggle at them just enough.

But what’s really going to get under their skin is the location. How close I am to London.

It’s all going to happen very quickly now.

I fix a cup of coffee and sit in the worn recliner. I draped a bed sheet over it to prevent the coarse, germ-infested fabric from touching me. As the sun’s rays stream through the dingy windows, creating a kaleidoscope of colors on the cement floor, thoughts of London erect in my mind. Her satin skin. Fresh lilac scent. The key tattoo she no longer conceals along her hand.

The feel of her soft, delicate hand slipping over mine, taking a life.

It’s enough to sustain me…but not for long. Since our first kill in the maze of keys, the compulsions have come on stronger, more demanding. Uniting with London has opened Pandora’s box—and what I believed could be my salvation, I now fear has sparked a maddening flame that will consume me.

I push a shaky hand through my damp hair, a laugh spilling free. I’m no better than the junkie on the bus. Craving the very bad thing. Wanting her more than I want oxygen; more than I want freedom.

Why else would I be in Maine? Initiating a half-hatched plan that will get me caught if not dead.

For her.

I was designed to kill…not love.

She’s destroyed me.

However, six weeks of waiting, and watching, and hiding, of feeling stagnant while I play it smart has its downside, also. But we have to give our enemies time to show themselves. We can’t fight what we can’t see; it’s like swinging aimlessly in the dark.