She laughs. “I’ve missed you, London, but not the brain cramps that come with having you as a friend.”
I offer her a sincere smile. “Touché.”
She moves in close and lowers her voice. “I put my driver’s license in the documents, as well as a burner phone and credit card. Ten-thousand limit. Do what you need to do, and we’ll worry about everything else later. Now give me your phone.” At the confused draw of my eyebrows, she says, “So you’re not traced.”
I hand her my cell. “Thank you.” Her trust in me secures my decision. This is the right path. I unearth my wallet and hand her a credit card. She tries to wave it away. “It’s to plant my whereabouts. No limit. Go crazy.”
As she accepts the card, she says, “Well then. Maybe I’ll get my hair done. And a new wardrobe. So I can prance around the city as the distinguished Dr. Noble.” She shakes her hair back, nose in the air.
“Are you mocking me?”
She places her finger an inch apart from her thumb. “Only a little.” Then a serious expression settles over her face. “Be careful.”
I bring her into a hug. I’m surprised when Sadie hugs me back. “I will,” I promise.
I leave then, with my new identity, and only a vague starting point once I arrive in Dublin. Trusting that Grayson and I—that our design—is merely an inevitability and not ill-fated.
My swinging pendulum might be metaphoric to his literal design—but both were set in motion long ago.
17
Devine Monsters
Grayson
Over the past twenty-four hours, Foster’s attack has gone viral. The once-peaceful fanatics and protesters have clashed and began to war with each other. Fights, riots. Hysteria. Cops in riot gear clog the streets. The news is saturated with reports of this brewing insanity. Law officials from across the state are being called in to help reinforce order.
I haven’t slept in as many hours.
The chaos has become a shelter of sorts, helping to keep me hidden while the taskforce focuses their efforts on Bangor. London remains on the reporters’ tongues, but she’s disappeared from the spotlight.
Uneasiness rattles me. Not knowing where she is—where Nelson is—keeps me from sleep. Restlessness is creeping in. I crave a release. The compulsions never stay checked for long.
As I walk the streets, I’m starting to wonder if I’m a contagion, spreading psychosis, infecting minds. It could all be in my head. What I’m witnessing might be a warped sense of the world, and I’m seated in London’s therapy room right now wearing a straightjacket.
I scrub my hands over my face, disoriented, craving caffeine. Sleep deprivation. It’s a fucking killer.
I pull my hoodie down low and head into the daytime work crowd as they navigate Rockland. It’s the same path Nelson takes to the crimes scenes. He passes right by the Refuge.
I duck into the heaving cluster, like little worker ants migrating down the sidewalk. The large wooden sign is a beacon for the bar. Agent Nelson has seen the sign before. Random ads popping out at him online, beckoning him to the bar with a promise of easy targets. Relief.
I take up my post across the street at a coffee shop. Two birds. One stone. I order a large coffee from a hungover barista, then seat myself near the window, where I can keep watch.
By the time I’ve drained the mug, Nelson still hasn’t shown.
I leave a few dollars on the table and then head out. I can’t risk staying in one place for too long. Maybe Nelson can’t risk temptation during the day. As I reemerge into the daylight, pain slices through my skull. Black spots fill my vision.
I move into an alley and press my back to the brick. Breathe through the discomfort. The lingering scent of lilac that still clings to my jacket diffuses some of the pain. I use the reprieve to make it to the bus stop.
I need sleep. Even the greatest minds can’t function without it.
On the r
ide to Bangor, I think about the little China doll girl and her mother. How her situation seemed so easy to fix. Take her mother out of the equation, and she might have a chance at a better life.
Or maybe not.
She could wind up in a terrible foster home with terrible people.