Born, Madly (Darkly, Madly 2)

I suppose that’s where I picked up my training.

Manipulation comes second nature to me. London figured this out easily enough. I remember that first glimpse of fear in her eyes—the moment she questioned who was in control.

She’s the one with the power, yet she still harbors fear of losing that control. Her fear of loss.

Fear. Fear. Fear. It makes the world go round.

As I head farther into downtown, where the reflective glare of the setting sun bounces off buildings and the noise shrouds my presence, I move along the shadowed city lines. Those dark pockets every city has. They keep me invisible. I’m just another man walking the streets.

I pull the hoodie of my jacket over my head. Look down at the sidewalk as I progress toward the entrance of the bar, my pulse careening chaotically against my veins. This feeling is more powerful than the lust for the hunt.

Every day I emerge, could be the day he finds me.

Special Agent Nelson has announced his presence, renewed in his faith to apprehend the Angel of Maine. Or so the brief news clip claims. After a leak in the local department revealed the DNA evidence, authorities had to make an official statement.

Detective Foster follows in Nelson’s footsteps, popping up like a whack-a-mole everywhere the agent appears. Foster’s a bit harder to track, as he doesn’t have a media presence like the FBI.

I push through the doors of the Refuge, the bar Lawson frequents. It’s hard not to feel invincible when every law official in the state of Maine is looking you. Here I am, boys. Come and get me.

Only there are no cops here. Only a group of rowdy college kids, two homely prostitutes, a few bikers in leather and beards, and one lonely bartender. A few other strays crowd the bar top, seeking release from their mundane lives, too.

An eclectic mix of the broken, downtrodden, and bored. An easy crowd to go unnoticed in. This is where our target losses himself nightly, sloughing off his tiring days like the dead skin he works around.

I find a seat in the far corner booth. From here, I can view the entrance, the bar, the crowd, and the bathrooms. I order a beer from the only waitress on duty.

“Sure thing, baby,” she says in hopes of scoring a decent tip before she saunters off. But her glazed-over, vacant eyes reveal she has no sexual interest in me.

The rowdy college boys aren’t as perceptive to her disinterest, though, and one slaps her ass as she passes their table, earning boisterous laughs from the rest of his friends.

She ignores them with the practiced apathy of a woman who’s lived too hard, too fast, for her years. I know the type. Her life coated in nicotine. Every accomplishment stained with the yellow tinge of disappointment.

The scene stirs a memory of my mother.

Her empty blue eyes, glassy and distant. My stepfather’s thick hand striking her pale cheek. It’s not a bad memory. Just a memory. Could be any memory from my childhood. They were all much the same.

I recall the moment with the same kind of practiced apathy as the waitress. Easily swatting the thought aside like an annoying gnat. Forgotten.

She returns with my drink, and this time, I give her a nod of commiseration. I’m sure we have a few things in common from our past. By the darkened skin beneath her eye that’s poorly concealed with caked makeup, I say she’s got more than a few things in common with my mother.

I sip the beer. I’m not much of a drinker—I don’t like the feeling of being out of control. But what kind of guise would this be if I didn’t have a drink in my hand?

Now my father, he was a drinker. My old man could put down two bottles of Paddy whiskey a night. It’s ultimately what sent him to his grave. Liver disease. The sour stench of whisky still turns my stomach. The only recollection of my childhood that had a direct and profound impact on me. Though I suspect London would strongly disagree.

A smile twists my lips as I glance at the door, expecting her to walk in. As if I can make her materialize with just a thought. I take another sip just to feel the burn. It matches the sting of disappointment.

London has been whisked back to her hometown, where she fights the state to release her sister’s remains. I’ve followed the story closely as she and my former lawyer appeared on TV; interviews exposing the dark secrets of her life. Spinoff clips of psychologists attempting to explain the conundrum of her circumstance. Even a few disbelievers shouting doubts and trying to defame her.

There’s also been an investigation opened into the whereabouts of her parents’ estranged family. Like one big fucking soap opera. It makes for good daytime television.

Who is Dr. London Noble really? one reporter asked the nation during a breaking news broadcast.

Apparently, she’s come to be known as Lydia Prescott.

I scrub a hand over my head and push back the hood. Doubt is a festering sore. It starts out small, barely noticeable, but you know it’s there. The more you touch it, probe it, worry it, the bigger it gets, until it’s a black, gaping wound.

London plays her part well in front of an audience. Maybe too well. She’s actively seeking information about her former life, and helping officials comb the state for the madman who abducted and tortured her.

All she has to do is drive an hour toward the coast.