Chapter 2 #2
She had long ago accepted that her brother was proof of it.
Jacob had murdered a young girl at summer camp when he was just eleven years old.
He and Brook had been raised in the same household with the same parents in the same town.
His desire to kill spoke to something beyond impulse, something wired deep into the architecture of who he was at his core.
Whatever combination of genetics had produced Jacob had also produced Brook.
And now she had created another life.
She understood the science. She had studied it extensively during college and again during her years as a profiler.
There was no single gene for violence, no inherited marker that guaranteed a child would grow up to destroy.
Environmental factors, attachment patterns, and early childhood experiences all played significant roles.
Nature and nurture were not competing forces but intertwined ones, each shaping and being shaped by the other in ways that researchers were still working to fully understand.
None of that knowledge stopped the intrusive thoughts or her belief that Jacob’s depravity had been there the day he’d been born.
“I’m sorry, little one,” Brook murmured as she gently rubbed her stomach in reassurance. “I’ll stop.”
She was so afraid that the baby could sense her fear.
Was it possible that the cortisol flooding her bloodstream during these episodes of anxiety was doing something, imprinting some trace of darkness onto cells that were still forming?
She’d read the studies that stress hormones could cross the placental barrier.
The idea that her own fears about the Walsh bloodline might be the very thing that caused harm was a cruel loop that her therapist had been helping her navigate for months.
Neil Swift had reminded her, more than once, that awareness was not the same as damage.
The fact that she was asking these questions at all was evidence of a fundamental difference between her and Jacob.
Her brother had never questioned himself.
He had never lost a moment of sleep over what he was. Unfortunately, Brook had lost plenty.
Eighteen.
Nineteen.
Twenty.
She and Graham had discussed whether to learn the baby’s sex. He had been open to either option, deferring to her preference with the unobtrusive patience that characterized most of his approach to the pregnancy.
Brook had chosen not to find out.
At least, not yet.
It wasn’t avoidance. It was the desire for preparation.
She needed to be ready for whoever this child turned out to be, not a projection of who she hoped they would become.
If she learned the sex, she would begin constructing an identity, assigning expectations, and building a framework.
And, in her experience, frameworks were just another word for possibilities.
She needed to meet this child without assumptions.
Graham had accepted her decision. She’d braced herself for disappointment, but instead, he’d simply agreed to wait. Still, she hadn’t missed the way his hand had briefly covered hers, or the fact that he’d held it there a moment longer than necessary.
Twenty-one.
Twenty-two.
The elevator slowed, and she sensed the subtle shift in momentum as it decelerated.
She straightened her posture and removed her hand from her stomach as the doors opened onto the small, narrow hallway.
The carpet was the same deep charcoal it had always been, and the sconce lighting cast warm pools against the off-white walls.
To her right was her neighbor’s door. More specifically, the condo that had belonged to Lorraine Upton, but was now occupied by Colin Vogel.
Brook briefly considered mentioning the move, giving him a heads-up about whatever minor disruptions might accompany a moving crew working on the floor.
It seemed like the polite thing to do, though her interactions with her neighbor had been limited to nodding in the hallway and a brief exchange about a package that had been delivered to the wrong unit.
She took a step toward his door and then stopped.
Her phone vibrated in the side pocket of her bag.
She pulled it forward, extracted her phone, and then glanced at the screen.
The call was from the office. She didn’t answer.
She would be at S&E within twenty minutes, anyway.
Whatever needed her attention could wait until she was standing in front of her team rather than speaking through a phone pressed to her ear in a hallway.
Brook slid her cell back into the side pocket and turned toward her own door at the end of the hall.
Colin could learn about her departure from Charlie or from the sound of furniture being carried out.
Either way, she had more pressing things to attend to, so she turned and walked down the hallway to her own condo.
A thin strip of transparent tape stretched across the seam between the door and its frame, positioned near the top where it would go unnoticed by anyone who wasn’t looking for it.
Brook examined it closely. The edges were still flush against both surfaces, undisturbed.
No one had opened this door since her last visit.
She peeled the tape off in a single motion and balled it between her fingers before unlocking the deadbolt.
The door swung inward, and the faint scent of cinnamon greeted her from the old candles on the entryway table.
The elongated piece of furniture had been crafted by her father for her mother, one of the few things she’d brought with her to D.C.
It didn’t take her long to enter her code into the security panel. The tape was merely something she continued to implement out of habit. She’d even taken the time to run through the security footage before leaving the estate this morning, hence her two-and-a-half-minute delay.
Though the condo had an open layout, she didn’t stop to stare at the dining room wall that she’d turned into a murder board years ago.
Photographs, newspaper clippings, and handwritten notes formed a web of connections that spiraled out like constellations.
In the coming weeks, she would dismantle this shrine to her obsession, carefully packing away the fragments of her research to transport to Graham’s estate.
The thought of uprooting the material didn’t appeal to her, but she understood it was necessary.
She set her keys inside the wooden bowl, placing her leather bag next to it.
She ignored the cardboard boxes stacked against the far wall near the window.
She had been moving her smaller, more personal belongings to Graham’s estate in modest increments, a process that suited her temperament.
No frantic packing, no last-minute scramble.
But she wasn’t here for boxes today.
She crossed the living room into her bedroom. A small smile touched her lips when she spotted the bed. Graham had been the last to make it, and the sheets were pulled with tight corners, the duvet smooth across the mattress without a single wrinkle.
It was such a small thing, really. A made bed in a condo she was leaving, in a city she was outgrowing. But it was also Graham distilled down to his most essential quality. He showed up completely, even when she didn’t ask.
Reaching for the closet door, she slid it open until she could flip the light switch.
The space was nearly bare. Most of her clothes had already been moved, and what remained were a few blazers in dry-cleaning bags and two pairs of heels she hadn’t decided whether to keep.
She ignored them and focused on the baseboard at the back wall.
The section she needed was the third panel from the left.
It appeared identical to every other panel along the base of the wall, which was the point.
She knelt, albeit awkwardly, and then pressed the left edge inward with her thumb.
The right side popped free just enough for her to grip it.
She pulled the section away and set it carefully on the carpet beside her knee.
Behind the baseboard was a cavity roughly eight inches wide and four inches deep. Inside sat a small box. It was unadorned, the kind of plain square that might hold jewelry or a spare set of keys. The box had been in this wall since the day she’d moved to D.C.
The weight of it was minimal but somehow heavier than it should have been. She held it in her palm for a brief moment before placing the baseboard back into position with a soft click. She then pressed both edges to confirm it was seated properly.
It didn’t take her long to turn off the light, close the closet door, and return to her foyer. She opened her leather bag and tucked the box deep inside for safekeeping. It would remain there until she arrived home…her new home.
Brook wasn’t a sentimental person, by any stretch of the imagination.
Yet she paused when her hand wrapped around the door handle.
She peered over her shoulder and came to the realization that she’d loved this place once.
Truly. The southeast corner unit on the twenty-third floor, with its view of the city and its absolute privacy.
It had been her fortress.
The place where she could close the door and become only herself, without judgment, free to stare at a murder board for hours while hunting the one person who haunted the recesses of her mind.
She would miss this place in the way that people miss things they’ve outgrown. Not with longing but with a quiet acknowledgment that it had served its purpose. With a deep breath, she pulled the door toward her and stepped into the hallway.
Then she stopped.
It wasn’t a sound that arrested her. It wasn’t something she observed in the shadows. It was a sensation that started low in her chest and radiated outward, sharp and formless, like the moment just before a crack of thunder when the air seemed to compress and hold its breath.
She instinctively placed a protective hand on her stomach.
It took a minute for her to realize that everything was the same as when she’d entered her condo. The hallway was empty. The sconce lighting hummed faintly. The charcoal carpet stretched in both directions, undisturbed. Yet she found herself standing perfectly still in the doorway.
Listening.
Waiting.
She slowly exhaled through her nose. The odd sensation was already fading, retreating back into whatever corner of her nervous system had produced it. But her hand remained on her stomach, and she could sense the faint, rhythmic movement beneath her palm.
The baby was shifting.
Turning.
Settling into a new position.
“You have me on edge, little one,” Brook murmured as she stepped entirely into the hallway and closed the door behind her.
Once she’d pulled out a roll of Scotch tape and smoothed the small piece into the top corner, she made her way to the elevator.
“Let’s go have our daily caramel macchiato, shall we? ”