I see the small river of blood first. Flowing through the rainwater over the asphalt like filmy motor oil. Then the estranged high-heel discarded in the middle of the alley. My own blood stirs. My pulse picks up speed. The thick scent of death chokes the air.
I step through the blood without thought, as if lured to the body by a magnetic force.
She’s propped up against the brick building, her skirt ruched up, her shirt torn, hair a tangled mess covering her face. Distinct bruises wrap her neck. She’s beautiful, a gift. I know she belongs to me by the word scrawled across her chest in blood.
Whore.
Even when you know what’s coming next, it’s nearly impossible to break your pattern. I kneel before the woman, entranced, and reach toward her neck to check for a pulse. Adrenaline slides through my veins like melted wax, thickening my blood, my heart pumping too hard, too fast, drowning out the sounds in the alley.
I almost miss the click of the gun’s safety.
Atoms freeze. The world halts. The distant sound of cars driving past the alley seems to fade away, leaving only two heartbeats fighting to dominate the void. I begin to pull my hand back from her neck.
“Don’t move.”
I stop, my hand held aloft mid-action. “Your handiwork, Agent Nelson? The contusions around the neck, right above the laceration—” I chance a look at him—“the signature is a dead giveaway. Pardon the pun.”
He levels the gun with my gaze. “Not mine. Yours. Your new MO. The proof that you’re devolving. Stand up.”
I rise to my feet. “Of course. How else would you have caught me if I weren’t coming undone? That makes it more believable.”
“My ninety-seven percent capture rate makes it fucking believable. I want the weapon in your pocket. Remove it…slowly.”
I keep one hand in the air and reach the other into my pocket. I bring out the switchblade.
“Toss it on the ground,” he says.
I sling it in his direction. The blade hits the gravel and clatters at his feet. “What now?”
“Now—” he scoops the knife off the asphalt “—you give me the rest of your weapons, and we end this like dignified men.”
I do so, laying the smaller knife, wire, and tape on the ground.
Nelson kicks them toward the dead woman. Then he flicks the switchblade open and intentionally slashes his arm. “Let’s see how this went down. First, I followed a lead to a Rockland bar. A patron recognized your description. Not having enough resources…” He grunts as he cuts another slash across his chest. “Instead of burdening the team with yet another false lead, I set out to investigate on my own.” He drops the bloodied knife to the ground. “A fortuitous chance encounter. Catching the criminal himself in the act. You attacked me, and I defended myself. One direct bullet to the head.”
I hold his gaze for a moment, then glance at the victim. I recognize her now. Charity. The prostitute. Poor Charity. Maybe I overindulged, too enthusiastic in my endeavors to trigger Nelson’s compulsion to kill. He couldn’t even wait a full day before he murdered the first person he came across.
Sloppy.
“And also lucky for you,” I say, “your lead can’t be questioned to corroborate the story.”
He smiles. “I don’t like loose ends.”
“Neither do I. But then you know that, seeing as you studied me, mimicked me.”
“You can’t really get inside the mind of a killer unless you adapt—try on his skin for a while.”
“And how does my skin feel?”
He lifts his chin. “I have to admit, I like it. I’ll like it even more when I’m sliding into London’s skin.”
My hands curl into fists.
He notices my reaction and his smile stretches. “I didn’t get the obsession. Not at first. But I knew she was vital in getting to you.” He steps closer. “If not for the doctor, you could’ve fled the country. Hell, we wouldn’t be standing here, right now, your demise a trigger-pull away, if you’d just left. What is it about London that you couldn’t let go?”
Jaw set, I breathe out the steely tension from my chest. “If you have to ask…”
Nelson may’ve said his piece flippantly, but the burning desire to unravel my draw to London flares in his wild eyes.