And that’s where I start. The tour guide leads us through corridors, pointing out the many cells. A familiar pang of nostalgia grips me, acute in its haunting clutch. I’ve lived within a cell my whole life. In one way or another.
He couldn’t have picked a more perfect location.
By the time the tour is coming to an end, I’m worried I missed the mark by a day, or even hours. No. I didn’t stray from my pattern.
Trepidation slithers around my bones, slowing my steps. I didn’t share every aspect of the trap with Grayson while I was designing it. Some elements—like the aconite—was decided later. We never got the chance to prepare beforehand.
Then a terrible thought: He might not be coming to me, but for me.
A hand slides into mine.
I stop walking. I’m held back from the rest of the tour group as they progress ahead.
For a few beats, I let the coarseness of his palm speed my heart. Adrenaline pours into my veins and skitters along my skin. Then I turn to face Grayson.
26
The End
Grayson
What beats a perfect death?
Faking a perfect death.
It’s not an easy feat. It takes time. Preparation. Skills. And an accomplice who is apprised in manipulation tactics that rival the most intelligent law officials.
I pull London inside one of the cells.
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“We might get trapped in here,” she says. But her eyes are wide in excitement. Those golden flecks sparkling.
“I could do time with you.” I wrap her in an embrace, bringing her close, and try to conceal the pain touching her causes me.
She’s never fooled. She immediately rolls my sleeves back to inspect.
The scars on my arms are covered in new red and silvery slashes. The razor cuts are still sensitive, the poison leaving behind a permanent imprint on my nerve endings.
“The pain will subside with time,” London says, tentatively touching the wounds. She looks up. “Any lingering side effects? Dizziness, paralysis?”
A grin curves my mouth. “Always the good doctor.”
She goes to say something more, and I cover her mouth with mine. Stealing her breath and inhaling her deeply.
It’s ironic that, what got me tried and found guilty, would also set me free. Corpus delicti. Body of the crime. It’s difficult to prove a death occurred without a body—but not impossible. Substantial circumstantial evidence is needed, and a witness.
A witness to observe the death is always helpful.
The psychotic FBI agent, obsessed with his capture rate, designed a death trap in the copycat manner to end my life, and he did. Grayson Peirce Sullivan is no more.
I now go by Cain Owen Hensley. That’s what it states on my fashioned ID.
I thought it was fitting, seeing as Cain killed Abel and then was doomed to wander the world aimlessly. Except I’m not aimless in my wandering. Not anymore.
I have a very specific destination.
“I can’t believe you chose Alcatraz,” London says as we board the ferry back to the mainland. “You’re disturbed.”