“Okay. Good. Give me a couple of hours.”
I end the call, slipping the phone into my jacket pocket.
London Noble.
Lydia Prescott.
Two worlds collide, and suddenly, every certainty I ever knew feels unstable. As if the cover sheet of my existence has been yanked away, and I’m not sure what awaits the unveiling.
I walk to my desk. Stand over it, my gaze lingering on papers and folders and coffee cups. I swipe my arms across the desktop. Contents crash to the floor with a satisfying clatter.
A knock sounds at the door. “London? Is everything okay?”
Bracing my palms against the desk’s edge, I ground myself. “Everything’s fine, Lacy.”
A hesitant moment of silence, then her footsteps retreat.
I close my eyes. I’ve been asking Agent Nelson for updates for weeks, with no follow up on his end. Then, a second murder is announced in Rockland—just hours away—and answers mater
ialize.
Answers that will take me to Hollows and away from here.
How convenient.
It’s possible Nelson and the FBI feel I’m in danger. Or they think I’m a complication to the manhunt. Either way, I should stay here—to procure the trap Grayson and I set for the copycat. That is, if the imitator is in fact in Maine.
I glance at the Dali hanging on the office wall. Beneath the piece of art is hours of extensive research and personal thoughts and findings. All my research into Grayson. I’ve been keeping a diary of sorts; insight into the man as well as the killer.
My notes serve a larger purpose, but the discernment it’s given me has also caused a thread of doubt. Even without a counterpart, Grayson should be evolving. With his IQ and the years he’s been an active killer, his methodology should be progressing.
Not devolving.
I hate doubt. I try to push it away, but I can’t help thinking I’m an upset to his pattern. What’s more, I’m treading in unknown waters myself. We’re embarking into uncharted territory, and I have to continue to question the process or I could sink.
One of us has to remain in control.
I hit the intercom and tell Lacy to book my flight to Mississippi.
7
Underbelly
Grayson
The scent of alcohol and cigarettes infuses the evening air. This part of town harbor reminds me of The Burrows. Dirty and dank and crawling with filth. Every beautiful town has an underbelly.
Snugly nestled in a pocket of Rush, the coastal hood where I grew up houses rows and rows of greenhouses. Not every evil happens in a basement. You can dig pretty far down before hitting water. Just the right depth to enclose a special room, where screams are muffled, and the sun of the massive greenhouse can’t reach you.
The smell of dirt and fertilizer always triggers fond memories of my second home. My wardens had a lot of children over the years. As many as five kids shared the dank, dark room at one time. Probably why I didn’t mind solitary confinement. I don’t like being in crowds; near people. We were the evil Brady Bunch. We had a mother and a father, and rules.
The rules were utmost important.
The rules were enforced by fear.
The rules were ingrained so deeply, chiseled into my marrow, that after the first year in captivity, my young mind believed they governed the world. It was how it worked; the reason why life existed in the first place. To serve these rules and my rulers.
Every child had a purpose. And no one broke the rules. My abductors weren’t unintelligent culchie—or rednecks, for a close American comparison. They were smart and cunning, and master manipulators.