The air of the SUV thickens, the silence stretching between us. Nelson believes, as he has since he first discovered me at the crime scene, that Grayson’s unhealthy obsession with his psychologist is what’s kept me alive, and also puts me in the greatest danger.
Yes. There are things worse than death. Grayson tortured me
and left me alive. To Nelson, that has been the most confounding part of all.
This time, we leave that argument unstated, and I clasp the door handle. “Dangerous serial offenders are my specialty, Agent Nelson.” I open the door. “Thank you for your efforts, but I can look after myself from now on.”
I hop out of the SUV and shut the door before he can reiterate his feelings. Right now, I’m not able to deal with my level of anxiousness over the search of my office and the possibility that he has been masquerading as the serial killer he’s hunting.
Both Foster and Nelson have been in my presence for months, and I didn’t suspect either of them. Doubt in my abilities festers deeply—but I have to regain the upper hand.
I have to be Dr. London Noble.
I rush toward the side entrance of the hospital, dodging a couple stray reporters. I’m too volatile; I can’t face the media. The automatic doors whoosh open, and the distinct antiseptic scent of the hospital overpowers me as the cool air fans my face. The sterile chill prickles my skin as I make my way to reception.
I have no doubt that I’ll have to throw my clout around to get visiting rights. I’m working myself up for the battle when the receptionist looks directly at me, her bright green eyes widening.
“I’m Dr. London Noble and—”
“Dr. Noble?” she repeats.
“Yes?” I say, cautiously.
She turns to her monitor and types. “You’re on Marshall Foster’s approved visitor’s list.” She looks up at me. “Actually, you’re the only name listed.”
Surprise gathers my features tight. “Is he receiving visitors?”
“He is,” she says, clicking a button on her keyboard. The door to my right buzzes open. “Turn left and he’s the second room on the right.”
“Thank you.”
Before I enter the ER wing, I notice Agent Nelson coming in. There’s a brief moment where we lock eyes, then I go through the door.
I know the fact that Grayson used me to escape custody in a hospital is at the top of his thoughts. I pass a number of agents in the hallway, their gazes trained on me. Maybe Nelson’s protective rant was a ruse. Maybe he’s counting on Grayson making an appearance.
Maybe I’m paranoid. Or even hopeful.
I find Foster’s room and knock once before entering.
His casted arm is in a sling, and purple colors beneath his worn eyes. I stop counting the number of contusions as I draw closer. His bloodshot gaze focuses on me.
“He did this to you.” It’s not a question, but for some reason, I need confirmation.
Foster grunts his affirmation. He then nods to the plastic cup with a straw on the tray next to the gurney.
I roll my eyes and grab the water. “I’m not your nurse.” But I let him take a couple of sips before I place the cup back on the tray. “What were you doing stalking my building? Stalking me?”
Foster clears his throat. “I knew he’d come back for you. It was just a matter of time.”
I fist my hands on my hips. “Well, you certainly proved it. To the whole world. Have you read the latest press release?”
“I don’t care what those assholes say.”
I dig out my phone and open a webpage. “Small Town Cop Takes on Serial Killer and Lives.” The headline reads like a war hero piece, but the article itself is a mockery of Foster. A Barney Fife type representation of his solo efforts to pursue one of the most dangerous criminals outside the law.
“Detective Marshall Foster of the New Castle Police Department was discovered early this morning near an unmarked grave inside a cemetery off highway ninety-five,” I read aloud. Unmarked grave—sounds like Grayson already. “The Delaware detective had been relieved of his weapon and cellphone, his arm broken and suffering multiple injuries. He was found handcuffed to the rebar of a headstone, suffering shock by the time officials were notified and arrived at the scene. Foster was dehydrated and delirious, ranting about the Angel of Maine and his next victim.”
I look up from my phone. “What next victim?”