Chapter 3
THREE
VIOLET
TEN YEARS LATER
Tap… tap, tap… tap… tap… tap, tap.
The sound of my pen striking the manila folder echoed in my office like a metronome that had forgotten its rhythm.
Outside the narrow window behind my desk, winter clung stubbornly to the city. The sky was the color of steel, and thin flakes of snow drifted sideways in the wind, brushing against the glass with a faint hiss. The scene brought me back nearly a decade, to a morning I wished never to relive.
I shook my head and took in my physical surroundings—cool, gray walls, abstract artwork hung in silver frames, a ceramic vase holding a single white orchid.
This office had seemed like a victory when the hospital offered it to me.
Not that I spent much time in Boston or my office.
More often than not, I traveled to meet with my clients, hoping for any clue as to what had happened to my sister, because even if my father ever learned anything about Lily and what had happened to her, he would never share any information with me.
In the end, the main draw of this office had been its proximity to King’s Chapel Burial Ground in Boston.
From twelve stories up, the rest of Boston felt distant, but my gaze was not on the city at large. It was rooted less than a mile along Atlantic Avenue, through a set of iron gates and along a narrow strip of land surrounded by aged oak trees.
Tap… tap… tap.
My mind continuously wandered. It had been almost exclusively doing so lately.
Maybe it was because I was back in Boston, or maybe it had everything to do with the ten-year anniversary of the day we laid Lily’s memory to rest just passing.
Any hope I still carried trembled with the realization that I’d never find out what happened to my sister. As did my shame and guilt.
If only it were the only sin I had to atone for.
My grip tightened around the pen.
Tap… tap…
Guilt was a physical thing.
It clawed at the inside of your ribs. It gutted you. It hollowed your soul and consumed you, forbidding you to sleep and find rest. True rest, without nightmares plaguing you until you shot upright, gasping and clutching at your chest and reminding you of the horrors.
The images of that final night with Lily, of the burial site at the cemetery even now, ten years later, plagued me without mercy.
If only I stayed home. If only I hadn’t left her alone. If only I could turn back time.
Tap… tap…
The office door creaked open and I jerked slightly, my pen stopping midair.
Dr. Franklin, the head of the department, peered through the doorway.
The fluorescent lights of the hallway haloed his thinning gray hair as he leaned in, scanning my office.
His eyes passed over the empty chairs, the untouched coffee cooling beside my elbow, and finally landed on the open folder on my desk.
“Is that the serial killer’s case?” His voice was calm as always.
Nothing ever frazzled Dr. Franklin, and I envied him for it.
It had to be the result of a happy life—at least it seemed that way from the outside looking in.
I’d met his wife last year at the spring fundraiser, and from the little she shared, I knew they had two adult children and three grandchildren who they adored and saw every week.
Their family was thriving, the complete opposite of mine.
My own father vowed that if I was ever to have children, he’d make me feel the loss he had to endure. His narcissism and mental abuse knew no bounds, even through the limited—or nonexistent—relationship we currently held.
“It is,” I answered.
He pushed the door open a little wider and leaned against the metal frame. “Have you made much progress?”
A tired breath slipped from me before I could stop it. “No.”
“Good.” My eyebrows met my hairline in surprise.
Dr. Franklin stepped inside at last, his polished shoes clicking against the hardwood floor as he crossed my office with unhurried strides. He lowered himself into the chair opposite my desk, the leather sighing under his weight.
“Why is that good?” I asked once he settled and crossed an ankle over his knee. His eyes wandered before lingering on the diplomas tacked to the walls.
“Because I have a better job for you.”
My fingers slid off the pen, letting it roll across the folder. “You do?”
“Yes.” He clasped his hands over his stomach, bespectacled eyes glimmering with mirth. “And it’s right up your alley, considering your habit of traveling for your clients.”
I snorted my amusement. He was right; while most psychiatrists preferred the safety of their offices and thrived in environments they could control, I was the opposite. My sessions took me around the world, and my clientele consisted mostly of criminals.
My area of focus stemmed from selfish desires, of course, but Dr. Franklin did not need to know that.
Because it was somewhere in those conversations with society’s “outcasts,” buried beneath lies and pathology, that I hoped I might hear something—anything—that would lead me back to the truth about my sister.
It was only due to numerous sessions with mobsters that I was finally able to get some information, if not closure, on my sister’s mysterious disappearance.
In one of my sessions with Christian “Priest” DiLustro, I’d learned that the charm symbol had something to do with the Marabella Mobster arrangements, and during our last session together, Christian DiLustro gave me one last piece of information: The Obsidian Society.
None of it made any sense, most of all what could possibly be my father’s connection to it all. Why he would ever have such a pendant handy was beyond me.
Regardless, it was the only clue I had, so I went digging.
I let out a heavy sigh, my chest squeezing.
I found a video recording that proved beyond any doubt that my sister was dead.
However, the culprits were still out there, and I couldn’t locate their names or learn anything about Marabella Mobster arrangements and the Obsidian Society.
I kept running into roadblocks, but I was hesitant to ask for help from any of the mobsters I’d treated over the years.
I didn’t want to be indebted to them, because I knew that never led anywhere good.
Bottom line, my activity over the last decade hadn’t been exactly professional, and it definitely wasn’t without its risks. My last “mistake” ten years ago had just about killed me, and it was as if a part of me had been torn away. I hadn’t been the same since.
“Could you elaborate?” I suggested carefully.
Dr. Franklin uncrossed his legs and leaned back, resting his forearms on the sides of his chair.
“Well, truthfully, I don’t know much.” He tapped his chin in thought. “There’s a case in Greece that needs your expertise. An evaluation.”
Greece.
The word landed somewhere deep in my chest.
“You were requested specifically,” he added.
Every muscle along my spine tightened. This couldn’t be a coincidence.
“But why?” My voice sounded distant to my own ears. “And better yet—by who?”
“Oh, you know, a colleague of a colleague of a friend… That old story.” He arched a knowing brow.
Dr. Franklin was well aware of the type of clientele I usually handled, although he was ignorant of the reasoning behind it, and for that I was grateful.
He was busy with his own practice, and I was always discrete and professional, which granted me independence from Dr. Franklin and all other staff of our practice.
“But I was assured that the environment is safe and the man is reputable.”
“The man?”
“Yes, the one who needs help.”
This conversation was going nowhere.
“Do you know him?” I asked, wishing for once that Dr. Franklin possessed even an ounce of nosiness under his tweed jackets and brightly colored ties.
He seemed to finally perk up. “I do know one of his colleagues, as a matter of fact.”
“And who’s the patient?”
Dr. Franklin lifted a shoulder in a small shrug.
“That’s the strange part.” He stared off, a contemplative look in his eyes. “They’ve asked to keep the patient’s name anonymous until you arrive in Greece. There’ll be a file delivered to your hotel that will have all further instructions.”
My thoughts fractured instantly into a thousand possibilities, but one rose above all the others.
Lykos Costello.
The name echoed in my mind like a ghost. Except, the third—and final—time I saw the man, he’d made it clear he hated me and didn’t want anything to do with me. The memory smarted: his cold stare, the door closing between us, the finality in his voice.
No, it couldn’t be him.
But another voice whispered beneath the doubt…
What if something terrible happened? Maybe he needs my help.
Our connection went deeper than a one-night stand, and that was impossible to ignore.
Not that I wanted to ignore it. The stakes were high, and if there was an opportunity that I could be within a hundred miles of Lykos Costello and our secret, I couldn’t resist the temptation.
I had to take this chance.
I stared down at the folder on my desk, but the words on it blurred. In their place, memories from my past flickered through my mind like old Polaroids. Haunting me. Mocking me.
“Where in Greece?” I heard myself ask.
“Athens,” he said, brightening at my question. “It’s such a magnificent city. Ancient history everywhere and…”
I knew he was trying to sell me the job, but my decision had already been made. I stopped listening, looking outside as the snow continued to fall, blanketing the cemetery in white once again.
I’d already failed twice in my life. I wouldn’t—couldn’t—fail again.