27. Willow
27
WILLOW
A fter lunch, I return to my office, my mind still hazy from Axel’s touch, when something on my desk catches my eye. My stomach drops. It’s photos—dozens of them scattered across the surface.
My palms grow clammy as I pick one up. It’s me walking to my car last week. Another few show me getting coffee, shopping, then at the gym.
“No, no, no.” The angles, the clarity—these weren’t taken with phone cameras. Someone’s been following me with professional equipment.
A photo of Axel and me kissing through my office window makes my blood run cold. The timestamp shows it was from our last session. My legs give out, and I sink into my chair.
That’s when I see the photo of my mother on her front porch, tending to her beloved roses. Red ink bleeds across the bottom: “Such a shame if something happened to her garden. Or her.”
My throat closes up. It must be the guards loyal to Marcus Kane. They must have been watching me this whole time. Building evidence. Waiting.
I grab my trash can and retch, but nothing comes up. The room spins as I gather the photos. I need to destroy them, but they’re proof—evidence of the surveillance and threat.
My mother’s face smiles in the photo, unaware of the danger I’ve put her in. What have I done? My choices, my desires—they’re not just affecting me anymore.
A shadow passes my door, and I freeze, photos clutched to my chest. Footsteps fade down the hall, but the fear remains, coiling around my spine like a serpent.
I need to warn Axel. First, I need to get my mother somewhere safe—away from here, away from the consequences of my descent into darkness.
The door swings open, and I shove the photos into my desk drawer. Eleanor stands in the doorway, her face tight with concern.
“Willow, do you have a minute? I’ve noticed some irregularities in the prison’s rehabilitation fund allocations.”
My pulse spikes, but I keep my expression neutral. “Of course. What seems to be the problem?”
She places a spreadsheet on my desk, pointing to highlighted sections. “These therapy supplies—the invoices don’t match our usual vendors. And the amounts are...” She frowns. “Substantial.”
“Oh, that.” I pull up the fake documentation I’ve prepared for this exact scenario. “I’ve been implementing a new art therapy program. The supplies are specialized, which is why they’re from different vendors. Here’s the proposal I submitted last month.”
Eleanor scans the document, her brow furrowing. “I don’t remember approving this.”
“It went through Fields in accounting first. He said it fell within our discretionary budget.” The lie flows smooth as silk from my lips. Amazing how easily deception comes now.
“Hmm.” She hands the paper back. “Just keep me in the loop next time?”
“Absolutely.” I flash an apologetic smile.
Eleanor doesn’t leave immediately. Instead, she settles into the chair across from my desk, her expression thoughtful. “Willow, I’m starting to wonder if I misjudged you when we first met.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, trying to sound merely curious rather than defensive.
“When I hired you, you seemed so... eager to connect, to be part of the team. You joined me for lunch those first few days and asked about staff gatherings.” She leans forward, studying me. “But since then, you’ve kept mostly to yourself. I thought perhaps you were just settling in, finding your footing, but it’s been months now.”
Guilt stabs through me. Eleanor has been nothing but supportive since my first day. She championed my hiring, mentored me, and invited me into her life. And here I am, stealing from the prison she’s dedicated her career to, planning my escape with one of her most dangerous inmates.
“I’m sorry, Eleanor. The truth is...” I hesitate, then decide a partial truth might be more convincing than another vague excuse about work stress. “I’ve been going through a rough breakup. My relationship of three years ended right before I started here.”
The lie feels safer than claiming work stress again and explains my emotional withdrawal.
“I didn’t want to bring personal drama into the workplace,” I continue. “I thought throwing myself into work would help, but I guess I’ve been more affected than I realized.”
“Oh, Willow.” Eleanor’s expression softens with understanding. “That’s a lot to process while starting a demanding new job. Why didn’t you say something?”
“I wanted to seem professional, capable. Not someone dealing with emotional baggage.”
“That’s exactly why you shouldn’t isolate yourself.” She reaches across the desk, her hand stopping just short of mine. “We all need support during difficult transitions. Why don’t you come over for dinner this weekend? Mark’s making his famous lasagna, and the kids have been asking about you.”
The memory of my one visit to Eleanor’s home right after I started working here—the warm family dinner, her children’s easy laughter, her husband’s kind eyes—twists the knife of guilt deeper. These are good people—people who welcomed me and trusted me.
“I’d love to, but...” I glance at my calendar, pretending to check. “I promised my mother I’d go shopping with her this weekend. She’s been feeling a bit lonely lately.”
It’s not entirely a lie. I need to spend time with my mom—to get her on a plane to Brazil before everything falls apart.
Eleanor sighs, disappointment evident in her expression. “Another time, then?”
“Definitely,” I lie, knowing there won’t be another time. In a matter of days, I’ll be gone. Eleanor will discover my betrayal and any friendship we might have had will be destroyed forever.
“You know,” Eleanor says, standing to leave, “when I recommended you for this position, I told the board I’d never seen someone with such natural insight into the criminal mind. Such empathy balanced with clinical distance.” She pauses at the door. “I still believe that. Don’t lose yourself in this work, Willow. Don’t let the darkness you study seep into you.”
Her words hit too close to home. The darkness has already seeped in—or perhaps it was always there, waiting for someone like Axel to draw it out.
“I won’t,” I promise, another lie to add to my growing collection. “And thank you, Eleanor. For everything.”
She smiles, unaware that this might be our last normal conversation. “See you at the staff meeting tomorrow?”
I nod, forcing a smile until she closes the door behind her.
As Eleanor’s footsteps fade, I pull out my burner phone and text Axel.
Someone is watching. Photos. My mom. Need to move the timeline up.
His response comes instantly.
How soon?
A cold sweat breaks across my forehead as I type.
Days. Not weeks.
I call Mom’s number, pressing the phone to my ear. She answers on the second ring.
“Sweetie! I was just thinking about you.”
“Mom, remember how you always wanted to see Brazil?” I keep my voice light and casual.
“Oh, the rainforest! And those beautiful beaches.” She sighs dreamily. “Why?”
“What if I told you I found amazing last-minute deals? Two weeks, all-inclusive.” I pull up the fake itinerary I’d prepared weeks ago. “You could leave tomorrow. The only rule is you have to leave behind all devices. You can take a simple phone with no mobile data, which I’ll get for you on the way home. Still, it’s an exclusive no-technology retreat,” I lie, knowing if she takes her cell phone or laptop, she’d be easily trackable once everything blows up.
“This weekend? But my garden?—”
“Please, Mom.” My voice cracks. “I need this. Work’s been... intense. And I want to spend time with you, just us. You will fly out two days before me, then I’ll join you once I finish Saturday morning.”
A pause. “Are you okay, honey? You sound strange.”
“I’m fine.” I swallow hard. “Better than fine. Life’s too short to keep putting things off, right?”
“Well...” She hesitates. “I suppose I could ask Sarah next door to water the plants.”
“Perfect. I’ll email you the details. Pack light, okay? We can shop there.”
After hanging up, I text Axel again.
My mom’s in. Bringing plans forward.
His reply chills me.
Good girl. Remember—no paper trail.
I open my laptop and move prison funds through the series of offshore accounts I’ve set up. Each transaction is carefully timed and carefully masked. The rehabilitation fund was just the beginning.
My hands are steady as I work, methodically checking off items from my mental list. The preparations for Mom have been the most challenging—and the biggest gamble. Last week, I contacted a discreet real estate agent specializing in quick, private sales. Mom’s house already has a buyer willing to wire the payment directly to one of my offshore accounts in exchange for a significant discount.
I’ve already transferred most of her savings to Brazil, leaving just enough in her accounts to avoid suspicion. I’ve arranged for a private charter flight that won’t appear in any database the FBI can access. Tickets were purchased with cash through an intermediary, and the flight plan was filed under a shell company.
Brazil is the perfect place to disappear and lie low. Until they stop looking.
I glance at Mom’s photo again. She’ll understand eventually. She has to. I’m gambling everything on her love for me—that when I explain when she sees how happy I am with Axel, she’ll forgive me for upending her life without warning.
I stare at my laptop screen, the glow casting shadows across my office. The transfer confirmations stare back at me, each one another nail in the coffin of my career. My life.
What am I doing?
My fingers freeze over the keyboard. The numbers blur as reality crashes over me like ice water. I’m stealing money. Planning an escape. Endangering my mother. All for a man who kills people.
Not just kills—tortures. The crime scene photos from his file flash through my mind. The cuts. The blood.
My stomach lurches. I grip the edge of my desk, trying to steady myself.
“He’s different with me,” I whisper to my empty office. But the words ring hollow.
Hadn’t every victim of a psychopath thought the same thing? That they were special? That they alone could see the real person beneath the monster?
I pull up his psychological evaluation. The words jump out at me: “Highly manipulative. Expert at identifying and exploiting vulnerabilities. Forms intense but ultimately false emotional bonds to achieve goals.”
My chest tightens. Everything he’s said, everything he’s done—it could all be an act. The passion, the vulnerability, even the way his voice softens when he says my name.
I think of how perfectly he played into my fantasies. How he knew exactly what to say, what to do. Almost like he’d read my mind. Studied me.
The room spins as another thought hits me: What if I’m just another victim? Another conquest? What if the moment we escape, the mask drops, and I see the real Axel? The one his other victims saw in their final moments?
Panic has me reaching for my phone and debating calling Eleanor. I could confess everything. Maybe there’s still time to fix this before?—
A text notification lights up my screen. It’s him.
I miss you. How about a quick visit before you go home for the night?
My fingers hover over the phone screen, my heart pounding against my ribs. The logical part of my brain screams at me to maintain distance, to protect what little integrity I have left.
We need to be careful. Extra visits will draw attention. Let’s stick to our scheduled sessions.
I hit send before I could change my mind. His response comes instantly.
Scared?
The mocking tone is detectable even in a text, making my skin flush. He knows exactly how to push my buttons.
No. Smart. People are watching. The photos prove it. We can’t risk everything now.
Three dots appear, disappear, and appear again. My stomach twists as I wait.
Since when do you make the rules?
I close my eyes, remembering the crime scene photos. The psychological evaluations. Everything I’ve worked for hangs by a thread.
Please, Axel. Trust me on this. We need to play it safe.
The minutes feel like hours before he responds.
Fine. But you better make our next session worth the wait.
Relief floods through me, followed immediately by shame at how easily he can affect me.
I will.
I set the phone down, knowing it’s the smart call. So why does it feel like I’m trying to convince myself?
The photos in my drawer seem to burn through the wood, a reminder of what’s at stake. One wrong move and everything falls apart.
I gather my things, ignoring how empty my office feels without him. How empty I feel.