I record the conversation on my phone, and when he’s done, I pack up my supplies, leaving him bound on the bed with his face covered.
“You’re just leaving me here like this?” he asks, panic lacing his voice.
I pause at the door, wondering again if I should simply kill him. I don’t like leaving loose ends. It’s sloppy. I glance at the bed, where he’s still in the same position. Back propped against the headboard. Wrists tied to his dick.
On the other hand, who the fuck is he going to tell?
“You can scream for help now,” I say, cracking the door open. “Or you can wait a few hours for your limp dick to slip out of the Zip Tie. Your choice.”
I wait in the open doorway to see what he’ll decide. His decision is more important than he knows. One shout will end his life.
He doesn’t stir or say a word. Maybe he is smarter than the average tech.
“Think about Grandma and baseball,” I say, then close the door.
I hover outside the room for a moment longer, just to make sure. At Lawson’s silence, I take off through the parking lot.
Maybe I’m going soft. Before London, I wouldn’t have left Lawson alive.
I understand what love is; the emotion, the feeling. Chemicals in the brain—the same chemicals that make up personalities and disorders. At a certain age, it’s nearly impossible to change who we are and how we behave.
But if something significant occurs—chemical-altering emotions felt for the first time—would that impact the chemistry of the brain? Would that change the person, the disorder?
People wake from comas. People who have never been violent suddenly commit murder. And psychopaths feel love for the first time.
What the fuck is the world coming to.
I suppose these are questions for a psychologist.
I just happen to know one. Intimately.
10
Dependence
London
The hum of the fish tank fills my office. The lack of noise from the waiting room makes the typically undetected sound loud in the too-quiet room. I recline in my chair, close my eyes, letting the drone soothe my mind. The patients are gone. The day through.
After an intense afternoon, I’ve successfully escaped the officer detail Agent Nelson sent to receive me at the airport. The two FBI agents he has escort me on occasion. The ones I know are always watching. They have gone from trying to be politely inconspicuous, to downright unavoidable. Hovering in the building lobby, near the reception desk. One even tried to camp out inside my office today.
Thankfully, the agents were called to Rockland for a more urgent matter than protecting me. Apparently, the FBI’s budget doesn’t allow for babysitting. They’re also too economical to spring for plane tickets, leaving Agent Nelson on a slow commute back to Maine. Which could be my only chance to make contact with Grayson.
Maybe that was Agent Nelson’s intention. After what transpired between us in Hollows, I have little faith that he harbors any trust for me. So there’s a chance that his patsy agents are still skulking around, watching.
I could go now. Right now. Don my disguise to the Blue Clover. Hope that Grayson senses my need…
Or I could be patient. Trust that Grayson and I are still working in tandem.
But are we?
Ever since I learned of Lydia, a sort of disconnect has descended over me like a gauzy veil, a feeling of detachment from Grayson that’s frightening. The more I wonder about the girl—the woman—who could’ve been, the more I allow myself to see and experience through her.
I’m fascinated, and I’m terrified.
I tighten the string around my index finger to the point of pain. It relieves some of the pressure wrapping my head as I swivel my chair back and forth, gaze cast out the window overlooking downtown.
Before I can proceed with my plan, I need reassurance. That’s reasonable. I’m not some lovesick teen fretting over her boyfriend’s lack of communication; I’m suffering the pangs of withdrawal. Like any drug, lust-sex-love pumps endorphins into the brain. And when depleted of those endorphins, the cravings can be as strong as the yearning for a hit of heroin.