21
Fated Ruin
Grayson
Gray cinderblock and iron bars. A trap of my own design. So familiar it should feel consoling—but I pace the length of the holding cell. A wild animal. This time it’s different. Because this time, there’s someone on the outside that matters.
I underestimated Nelson.
For that, I deserve my consequences. And I’ll willingly serve out my sentence and walk death row with my head held high, as long as London remains free and unharmed.
As long as a disgrace like Nelson doesn’t get anywhere near her.
It’s the loss of information that’s torturing me. Where she is…what’s happening to her. If I call the slovenly cop over and tell him there’s an unhinged FBI agent out there with his sights set on my psychologist, would he believe me? Or would I put her at even greater risk?
My design is simple: get caught, and escape. It’s what I do. The never-ending cycle of my fucking existence. Until I go bleeding mad. With short intervals where I get to touch her…taste her…experience the sweet glimpse of heaven through her—the unexpected variable that interrupted my routine.
She changed everything.
I’m a devil with a heart. Pure lunacy. But then, even the devil loves passionately, ardently, coveting this world…so much so that he rebuffed heaven. A manic laugh starts at the base of my throat, and I’m not sure I can stop it.
They’ve stripped me of my clothes, leaving me with jogging pants and a plain white T-shirt. Nothing left in the cell that I can use—they’re not sure what’s safe and what’s not—they’ve taken everything. Only a thin cot mattress and toilet with a sink atop in the holding cell.
I search again, going over every inch. Trying to find a change, upgrade, a revision, or something I overlooked before.
I’ve studied the schematic of this building, of this cage, for months. I compared every detail and possible outcome. And I know that there’s no way out. Not without London.
I was wrong to hinge so much on her, but then this was the least likely result. Planning for a potential outcome is different than expecting it. Truthfully, she wasn’t supposed to be involved at all. Just her existence has changed the course, and I don’t know if I can ever control it again.
London said our aim was too high. Nelson was too big of a mark. I’m not sure if it was my pride or desperation to be with her that did us in—but here I am. Again. I laugh. Push my palms over my head, as if I can stop the painful webbing cluttering my brain.
We didn’t choose Nelson; he chose us. He put himself in our path and made it possible. Only I wanted it too badly—I’ve never wanted anything before her, never craved to be free until her golden-flecked eyes really saw me.
And then she appears. My angel of mercy. Clearing the maddening fog.
“Fifteen minutes,” the guard accompanying London says. “Three feet away from the cell at all times. Try anything funny, and you’re out. You got that, Sullivan?” he directs this toward me.
I nod once, and the guard steps away, giving us the illusion of privacy.
I can’t take my eyes off her. In a matter of seconds, I’ve analyzed every cell of her body, looking for evidence of pain or suffering. She’s too well collected, her wall erected to keep everyone out.
“Seems like I’m destined to visit you behind bars,” she says. Her voice is raw, strained. I’m not sure if it’s the statement or the action of talking that causes her pain, but she’s hurting.
“Remove the scarf.”
“No,” she says, averting her eyes briefly. “Not yet. I need to talk to you first, and I need you to hear me.”
Fury boils my blood. I stalk toward the row of bars and link my hands around the cold iron to douse the flames. “I’m listening.”
She looks down at her hands. Her thumb traces the inked key and the scar along her palm. “Why did you choose me, Grayson?”
When she finds my eyes again, I hold her gaze, unrepentant.
“I want the truth,” she demands.
The truth? Would she believe me if I told her that I didn’t realize the reason at first. That I was consumed by her, obsessed with the unknown—that she frightened me as much as she mesmerized me. Scrape the reasons back layer by layer, until only one, blindingly obvious motive sparkles with clarity. “Because you’re the best.”
My response neither shocks nor insults her. I’ve confirmed what she’s already puzzled out. “Schizophrenia runs in your family,” she says, pulling the seams to unravel the truth of me. “After our first session, I decided that you came to me because you wanted me to save your life. I wasn’t too far off,