Chapter 1 #2
“To answer your question, Eve.” I deliberately use her name, refusing to give her any power by acknowledging her doctorate. “I blame Valentine Grant, aka the motherfucking Hunter of New York City,” I growl, throwing the name out like a grenade and watch where the shrapnel lands.
It’s subtle—so subtle most would miss it. But I’ve been studying people’s tells since I was old enough to trick my way into backroom poker games. The momentary stillness of her pen. The almost imperceptible tightening around her eyes. The fraction of a second delay before she responds.
“I see,” she says, voice perfectly modulated. “And who was Valentine Grant to your sister?”
“You tell me.” I hold her gaze steadily, all pretense of the broken brother momentarily set aside. “He was your patient, wasn’t he?”
Eve’s face gives nothing away, but her knuckles whiten slightly around her pen. “I can’t discuss any other patients, real or hypothetical. That would be a breach of confidentiality.”
“Even when one patient murdered another?” The words come out sharper than I intended, but I don’t try to soften them.
Something flicks in her eyes when she looks at me. “Valentine didn’t kill your sister,” she states calmly.
I clench my jaw, trying not to react to her words. But it’s a losing battle because she’s right. I fucking killed Ruby. “Careful, Eve,” I growl. “Just because he didn’t end her life doesn’t mean he’s not responsible. It was his interference that led to the outcome we now all have to live with. ”
“I understand you’re looking for answers. For someone to blame. That’s normal after suffering a traumatic loss.” She talks like she’s trying to soothe me. “But I can’t discuss other individuals who may or may not have been under my care.”
The way she says it piques my attention, and I take in her entire body, looking for more tells. Her nostrils flare slightly, and she rolls her shoulders back. Both movements are subtle, making me wonder if she even knows she’s doing it.
Whether she knows or not is inconsequential. I saw it, and I’m cataloging it in my mind. The way she’s acting is like she’s… protecting something. Or possibly someone. Ah fuck me, is she another of Valentine’s conquests? It would explain her composure.
Any decent human being would react at the mention of a murderer they’d treated, protected under the guise of confidentiality.
But instead of showing cracks, guilt, or even horror in her professional veneer, Eve Mortis just sits there—completely unmoved, hiding behind ethics while my sister rots in the ground.
“Jack.” She leans forward slightly, locking her gray gaze on my green one. “I’m here to help you process your loss. To find healthy ways to cope. Not to speculate about circumstances that neither of us can change.”
I look down at my hands, forcing myself to act like she’s successfully chastised me.
Inhaling deeply, I hold my breath and mentally count to ten before exhaling audibly.
“You’re right. I’m sorry. I just…” Trailing off, I let out a carefully measured sigh.
“I keep thinking if someone had noticed sooner, if someone had said something…” I trail off, leaving the accusation hanging in the air between us.
“Blame is a natural response to loss,” Eve says, clinical and precise. “But it rarely brings the peace we’re seeking.”
She thinks I want peace, but what I really want is a goddamn reckoning. “I should go,” I say, standing abruptly. “This was a mistake. I’m not ready for this.” I gesture vaguely at the space between us.
Eve stands as well, maintaining the perfect professional distance. “Grief has its own timeline. There’s no rush. When you’re ready to focus on you r healing, my door is open.”
Healing. As if words could ever stitch together the hole Ruby’s absence has torn through my world.
“Thank you for your time,” I say, summoning a fragile smile. I step toward the door, then pause, turning back to her with a carefully crafted vulnerability in my eyes. “I’m sorry for being difficult. It’s just hard. Harder than I expected.”
Something in her expression softens fractionally—not empathy, but a professional recognition of pain. She steps closer, offering her hand. “It’s understandable. Emotions are never simple, especially not the strong ones.”
I take her hand, but instead of shaking it, I lean in and press a quick, dry kiss to her cheek. I feel her stiffen in surprise, her skin cool beneath my lips.
“My sister would have liked you,” I murmur, the lie bitter on my tongue.
I pull back to see confusion flicker across her face before her professional mask slides back into place. Good. Let her feel unsettled. Let her remember the press of my lips against her skin. A fucking Judas kiss.
As I walk back through the waiting room, I only stop long enough to pay Naya. She’s now sitting next to an absurdly large bouquet of red roses. They look like the kind of bouquet desperate men buy to either say sorry or lay claim.
It’s not my fucking problem which one fits. Now that I’ve seen everything I needed to see, I leave. Eve Mortis wasn’t shocked by the accusation of her former patient committing murder, or even the mention of his serial killer persona.
That can only mean one thing, she already knew. And maybe, just maybe, she’s used to being around people like that. My thoughts circle around this as I get into my car and drive the short way to the cemetery.
The cemetery is silent as the sun begins its descent, painting long shadows across the marble facades of family mausoleums. I drive past the main entrance where mourners gather, taking instead the service road that curves behind the hill.
The Knight family crypt stands imposing—generations of power and secrets sealed in stone. I don’t stop. Ruby isn’t there, not really. Nick insisted on entombing her with the rest of the family, tradition demanding she be locked away in the dark.
But I know our sister. Since her marriage to Michael, there’s no way she’d want to be caged again. She deserved something else—something I alone provided.
I park near the eastern edge of the cemetery where the manicured lawns give way to wilder ground.
The groundskeeper nods as I pass—I’ve paid him enough to ensure both his silence and his service.
The path I follow isn’t marked, but my feet know the way, crushing the frost covered grass that sounds like whispered confessions beneath my shoes.
Three days after the official funeral, I bought this plot under a different name. A small, private space beneath an old oak tree where the stars are visible at night. Where Ruby can have what was stolen from her in life—freedom.
The headstone is simple black granite, her name and dates carved in elegant script. No epitaphs. No Bible verses. Just Ruby Knight—not Simmons—as unadorned and honest as she never got to be.
I kneel on the frozen dirt that covers some of Ruby’s favorite belongings.
From my pocket, I withdraw a single rose—pristine ruby-red petals that almost glow in the fading light.
With deliberate movements, I snap the stem, the crack echoing in the quiet air.
The broken flower lays against the dark stone like an accusation.
My fingers trace the edge of the headstone, feeling the cold seep into my skin. “I met her today. Looked Eve Mortis in the eyes, and she didn’t even flinch when I mentioned Valentine.”
A slight breeze stirs the leaves overhead, sending dappled shadows dancing across the grave. I imagine it’s Ruby, listening.
“She hides behind confidentiality. Ethics.” The words taste sour. “As if any of that matters when a monster sits across from you. She knew, Rubes. She had to know what he was, and she did nothing.”
My hand moves to my chest, pressing against the raised scar beneath my shirt. A constant reminder of my own survival, one I’d trade instantly if I could bring my sister back. The memory of her death comes unbidd en, sharp and vivid as it does in my nightmares.
Valentine holds a knife at Ruby’s throat. My gun, steady in my hand. The shot hits perfect, centered. Except… Ruby never moved away. And the realization that she wasn’t going to didn’t hit me until after I pulled the trigger.
One clean shot through both of them. Valentine died instantly. Ruby followed shortly after, her eyes wide with… fuck, I don’t know. A part of me thinks she tried to convey forgiveness through her dimming eyes. But that’s probably nothing more than wishful thinking.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, the two words inadequate against the weight of what happened. “I should have been faster. Smarter. I should have seen what he was doing to you sooner.”
The sun has nearly disappeared now, the cemetery cloaked in deepening twilight. In the distance, I hear the heavy clang of the main gates closing for the night. I should leave, but I linger, needing to finish this before I can move forward with what comes next.
“Eve Mortis has blood on her hands,” I continue, my voice hardening. “She probably sat in her office and listened to Valentine’s confessions and plans. Writing them down in her notebook instead of stopping him.”
The broken flower gleams red against the darkness of the stone, a symbol not of Ruby but of Eve—pristine on the outside, fractured at the core. It’s fitting that it rests here, marking the grave of the woman Eve failed.
“I’m going to make her feel what you felt, Rubes.” I trace my sister’s name one last time. “Eve Mortis is going to fucking pay.”
Standing, I brush the dirt from my knees in a gesture that feels ceremonial. The cemetery has fallen completely silent, as if holding its breath. Even the distant sounds of the city seem muffled, respectful of this moment of decision.
With those words, I turn from the grave, my path clear before me. There’s work to be done. A reckoning to be crafted. Eve Mortis believes she’s safe behind her glass desk and her composed facade. She has no idea what’s coming for her— who’s coming for her.
Back in the car, I pull my phone out and do a quick internet search for th e owner of the building Eve’s clinic resides in.
As soon as I have the details, I tap the number, holding the phone to my ear while it rings.
“Good afternoon and thank you for calling McAllister Holdings. How may I direct your call?” a chipper voice asks.
“Shaun McAllister, please,” I reply.
The woman tells me to hold, and it only takes two minutes before Shaun answers my call. “This is Shaun McAllister. How can I be of assistance?”
A wicked smile spreads across my face. “I want to talk to you about one of your tenants.”