Born, Madly (Darkly, Madly 2)

Which, to be honest, seems to have worked.

When the manhunt for Grayson took authorities toward the south, I was approached by Nelson’s superiors and questioned on his whereabouts. I was the last to have seen the agent, to have talked to him. According to the FBI, Nelson was already a loose cannon, having pushed his way onto Grayson’s case against their discretion.

Nelson was under investigation at the time, his stellar capture rate not earning him any favors where the FBI was concerned. Although he received a slight pardon for his behavior after the death of his wife and child the previous year, he was required to pass a psych eval before returning full-time.

All the time I spent with Agent Nelson and he never once mentioned the accident that took his family. Then again, revealing a major stressor to a criminal psychologist would not have been an ideal move on his part. To wit, the FBI are the best secret keepers.

Well, almost the best.

I stack the boxes outside my office for the moving crew tomorrow, then I go to turn off the light. A moment of nostalgia grabs me, and I look at the saltwater tank, now devoid of fish, and say a silent goodbye to my practice.

After I lock up for the last time, I set the key on the receptionist desk and decide to walk the scenic route to my apartment. I’m keeping the lease on the townhouse, as Maine will always be my home. I’m just not sure about reopening a practice here. At least, not in the near future.

Time is needed.

Time and distance.

The aviary is beautiful at sunset. Whenever I had a particularly bad day, a detour onto the winding paths through lush greenery always soothed me. I don’t even particularly like birds… I come here for the gardens and trails. The ponds that line the boardwalk.

I never really thought about why I might find this place so tranquil. I can’t help but wonder if I’m relating to the giant birdcage on a subcon

scious level. Feeling some measure of comfort in the iron bars. I stuff my hands in my pockets and mentally laugh at myself, mocking my over analytical nature.

This is the first time I’ve been here since Detective Foster followed me into the gardens. I half expect to see him as I turn the corner. With his hovering cloud of cigarette smoke and derisive expression, ready to scold me for walking home alone.

Over the past few weeks, the ornery detective and I have gotten closer. Oddly enough, Foster has proven to be rather heroic, swooping in to help me evade the press after Grayson’s escape when Young couldn’t be present.

I even gave him the evidence of Nelson’s attack on me—the epithelial cells I recovered from beneath my nails after having scratched the agent. I believe it was that trust I supplied in him, touting a conspiracy to protect Agent Nelson on the FBI’s part, which solidified his belief in my having no hand in Grayson’s latest getaway.

Before I arrived at the Rockland jailhouse, I called Foster from the taxi, securing a measure of protection against any future attacks from the deranged agent, and insurance for Grayson. If something happened to me, I wanted at least one person to suspect it might not be Grayson.

I kept the truth of Nelson’s copycat murders hidden, knowing that, without proof, it would be an empty accusation—one the Feds would hardly be willing to believe or investigate. But I could use Nelson’s attack on me to prove his devolving mental state. For now, that’s enough.

I’m still pretty good at reading people. And as far as Foster is concerned, Grayson is a threat to the both of us. Joining us together in some morbid effort to protect each other, as no one else has suffered as we have.

By now, the detective should’ve returned to New Castle. Yet he’s stated that, with the loss of his career, there’s nothing there for him to return to. He’s taken a job here as a private investigator, claiming he’s enjoying the freedom of selecting his own investigations. But I believe, like me, he’s waiting.

A feeling of déjà vu assaults my senses, and I stop. Footsteps reach my ears. I whirl around, Taser already in hand.

A young man wearing a blue postal uniform raises his hands. “Whoa—”

“What do you want?”

I’m wary of everyone these days. As I study the man, he appears harmless, but I know how easily one can be deceived. The mini-Taser I keep clipped to my belt loop withdraws back to its place on a retractable cord.

“That’s pretty convenient,” the guy says, then takes a hesitant step forward. I notice a small package in his hand.

“Don’t move,” I say. “What is that?”

He holds it out to me. “It’s for Dr. Noble,” he claims. “I tried your office, but it was closed. Then someone said you just left the building, and I saw you heading this way. Are you Dr. Noble? This package is kind of time sensitive…”

“How much were you paid to deliver it personally?”

A guilty blush tinges his cheeks. “It’s important that I get this to you today.”

Dammit. This feels wrong. If Grayson wants to reach me, he does so. He doesn’t involve others—but maybe he’s too far away. Maybe this is the only way he can contact me.

“Who gave it to you?” I ask. When he shakes his head, clueless, I push. “Was it a man? What did he look like?”