Born, Madly (Darkly, Madly 2)

Here I am, baby.

The front door swings open, and in walks our crime-scene tech. Lawson is running late today, a weary expression on his face as he heads directly to the bar to order his beer. He’s had a hectic day.

Two grisly murders within a week and the pressure is on.

I drop my head and stare into my tumbler. The locals in this bar could give two shits about who I am, but Lawson works within the system. He’s been made aware of my description. He’s working the crime scenes that the FBI know are linked to me.

So we wait. And watch.

With every gulp of his beer, Lawson eases into his comfort zone. He’s already on his third drink—one more than he usually downs before he goes home.

Every once in a while, he glances over to the two women working the back of the room. He comes in here often enough to know what they do for a living. With his fear of rejection, soliciting a prostitute is a natural step for him. But his fear is too great—even by the time he’s on his fourth beer, he can’t drum up the courage to approach them.

I wonder how he met his wife?

He signals the bartender to cash out.

I drain the glass and toss a healthy tip on the table. Not too healthy—I don’t want the waitress to observe me any closer than she needs to. Her disinterest keeps this bar a safe haven for us. Lawson and me.

With that thought comes a fresh lance to the wound. London is my haven. Like cancer, that festering doubt spreads wider.

If I want to speed this up, I need answers. Now.

The drunken college boys get into an altercation with the bikers, and I use the ruckus to sidle up next to one of the working girls. She’s claimed her john for the night, getting ready to meet him at the entrance so they can covertly leave together.

“You gotta offer more than three-hundred, sugar,” she says to me as she drapes her jacket on. “Otherwise, I’ve got my date for the night.”

I slip a wad of cash into her pocket. “Five-hundred. Count it if you want.”

She finally turns toward me, giving me a perusing once over. “You don’t look like you’re desperate for a date.”

“It’s for my friend.” I nod toward the bar top where

Lawson is closing out his tab. “He’s shy.”

She nods slowly. “Ah. That guy.” She looks me over again curiously. She works this bar. She’s never seen me before. I’m not Lawson’s friend.

I slip another roll of cash into her pocket. “Two-hundred more not to mention me. He’s really shy. Tell him it’s a freebie.” I glance around the bar. “Make sure he has a beer first.” I give her a bottle. “Will help loosen him up.”

She’s a perceptive girl. She has to be in her line of work. She takes the bottle, pocketing it beneath her jacket quickly. “Will it kill him?” She holds up a hand. “You know what, baby. I don’t want to know. Just don’t show yourself around here again.”

“Done.” I give her a nod of gratitude, then head toward the exit.

As I linger in the alley outside the bar, waiting to follow Lawson, I find I’m buzzing. Wishing London was here for this next part. No one can break a mind the way she can. I know, because I’ve seen her process. Studied her technique on the tapes. Looking for ways to combine our methods.

Larry was just a small taste of what we’re capable of together.

I spot Lawson and the prostitute leaving the bar, and I wait a few beats before picking up my stashed duffle bag and falling into step behind them. They’re walking arm-in-arm, laughing. Lawson’s inebriated state mollifies his fears.

I know how to bring them roaring back.

Unlike London, I was able to release my former life with the ease of letting go of a helium balloon. It floated up, up, gone. Blotted out by the sun. I severed all connections to the boy born in Hells Kells.

Maybe London has found a thread in the life that was stolen from her—some string to tether her. She loves her string. Her dead sister, perhaps. Or wealthy, respectable parents she can now be proud of, unlike the man she murdered to escape his deviant legacy.

Well, if my lovely lilac is falling victim to her poisonous delusions again, there’s really only one answer: pluck off the offending petals.

Time to remind Dr. London Noble of who she is.