Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not becomes a monster. When you gaze long enough into the abyss, the abyss gazes back into you.
~Friedrich Nietzshe
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Adrift
Sadie
Jackson Randall Lovett.
Three unassuming names in their own right, but when strung together in this precise, orderly fashion, seize me with terror. Damn me to nightmares.
My captor.
I didn’t learn his name until later, until after I was released from hospital care, when my parents could no longer shield me from the stormy aftermath. Reporters, journalists, therapists… They all whispered his name to me, hot breath slithering into my ear, infusing me with a new kind of dread.
Memories.
Yes, Jackson Randall Lovett was dead. Killed. Gunned down in my very presence. Ultimate proof that his sadistic torture could no longer afflict my life. But in my subconscious, in the dark, tranquil waters of my mind, his ghost began its haunt.
I heard the shiver-inducing crack the moment my soul fissured, and my psyche fragmented. As the fracture traveled on, razor-sharp teeth shredding me in two, I clung to the edge of my past—to the girl who existed before Jackson Randall Lovett.
I wanted to save her.
I only had two options: be consumed by the blackness, or fight back.
Die or live.
I initially took the path of least resistance, which led to a painful life of battling drug addiction. For a time, I was clutched within the tempting claws of escapism brought on by a promised high. I was a teen, after all. Temptation was all around me, would have still been there had I never been stolen that one unfortunate night. Ultimately, though, I found the reprieve that came from knocking myself unconscious with a handful of pain pills didn’t last long enough. I always awoke right back into my dark realm, the walls bleeding, the haunt of my captor pervading my daily nightmares.
It was during those rocky two years of teenage hell that my softhearted father decided he couldn’t endure the painful road to recovery. He left, and I didn’t fault him. Maybe an outsider looking in would, but I just couldn’t judge him for abandoning a sinking ship.
Even still, the darkness that had infused itself so deeply into our family killed him in the end. There was no escape. My senior year of college, I got the call that he had suffered a heart attack. My softhearted father. His heart had failed him.
That’s when—finally—the second path presented itself. Fight.
Take my hard-earned degree in psychology (originally majored in to help survivors of horrific crimes recover) and apply it to a new area of study. A more proactive approach, which would allow me to prevent the destruction of lives in the first place. I would help law enforcement capture sadistic psychopaths. Stop them before they could cause more damage.
It seemed the only logical choice.
I couldn’t have known then where it all would lead.
But maybe there was another path. A third option I could’ve explored. I should’ve searched harder.
“Piper McKenna goes there.” Detective Quinn points toward the clear glass whiteboard, directing the newest member of his task force on where to place the first victim along the timeline.
Quinn rakes a hand through his mussed hair, and a few recently sprouted silver strands feather back into place. The unshaved scruff along his jaw reveals just how little sleep he’s had over the past week, but even in his haggard state, he still looks every bit the tidy and handsome detective.
Detective Alec Carson, a transfer from downstate, presses the felt-tip marker to the glass and drags it upward, creating a single, black dash to represent Piper McKenna’s death. She gets one thin streak to signify her demise. That’s all. One mark to represent the taking of her life, which will be forever tainted by the disgraceful state in which the UNSUB left her.
These morbid thoughts cloud my head, splinter my judgments, making the small conference room feel stuffy and clinical, like a hospital room. It’s possible that’s why I’m so focused on my own, personal timeline. Contemplating how I got here.
“Bonds, get your head out of your ass and read back that press statement.”
Snapped out of my daze, my attention shifts to Quinn. Gaze narrowed, he eyes me carefully, waiting for my response. Ever since I disclosed the text messages I received from the UNSUB, he’s adopted an overprotective disposition. He’s become a constant, hovering big brother presence in my life. There’s also a bit of suspicion behind his concern. Which I don’t blame him; why did the UNSUB contact me?
That topic has become a point of focus for not only Quinn, but the whole task force. Analyzing each sentence, deciphering the cryptic meaning behind every word, syllable, letter, punctuation mark. Probing me relentlessly on what I know; people of interest from my past and my present. Tirelessly examining the evidence until the proof of the matter became apparent: I do not know the UNSUB.