Twisted Shadows (Sugar & Vice #2)

Chapter One

CHAPTER ONE

Three weeks after the brutal murder of Senator Hannah Hathaway, best known for authoring a bill introducing the country’s strictest anti-empathy laws, the mood in Seattle remains tense.

“People are scared,” said a source from within Hathaway’s office, who asked to remain anonymous. “They’re saying some of the executives at Stone Solutions were linked to the murder, but how could they be? Stone Solutions makes the empaths’ gloves. They keep us safe from empaths.”

“American Minds Intact has always stood for the right to privacy from empathy, and we will always stand with Stone Solutions,” AMI president, Beau Macy, said. “We continue to call for an ongoing investigation into Seattle’s empaths, who will always be this city’s greatest threat.”

No new information has been shared on the condition of Stone Solutions CEO Cedrick Stone, who was reportedly hospitalized the day after Senator Hathaway’s murder. Hathaway’s bill, S.B. 1437, recently passed in the Senate and will be up for a vote in the House.

—THE EMERALD CITY TRIBUNE , “SEATTLE STILL REELING FROM NOVEMBER’S MURDERS AND EMPATH CONTROVERSIES”

If Evan Grayson had been someone other than the Dead Man, he might’ve felt something about spending yet another day of inaction in an eighteen-degree Washington, DC. Where he was yet again crammed into the smallest—and most isolated—conference room, with an overflowing table of bickering directors representing all the various empathy-related organizations.

Someone else especially might’ve had feelings about a room of wealthy, high-powered people shooting him dirty looks when they thought he wouldn’t notice. But Grayson didn’t make decisions to make others happy for the same reason he had no feelings about the size of the conference room, or the endless sniping, or those glares. Holt Traynor, director of the Empath Initiative, had requested he attend this latest meeting; all the Dead Man was concerned with was learning why.

He leaned back against the conference room wall, listening.

“I agree with you, as I usually do,” Director Traynor was saying to Director Victor Nichols of the Polaris Empathic Research Facility. “But a United States senator behind a controversial anti-empathy bill is dead, and the head of the country’s biggest anti-empathy defense facility has been implicated in the murder. EI is under a microscope; the public needs to believe we’re acting.”

Traynor was a former army general; a big man with a crisp suit, close-cropped brown hair, and a perpetual poker face, maybe from years of hiding his feelings from empaths. Unlike Traynor, Nichols had an openly bitter expression, his brown hair uncombed, his skin pale under the fluorescent light as his glasses slid down his sweaty nose. His gaze darted to Grayson, then back to Director Traynor. “The public is EI’s problem, not mine,” Nichols said. “I was not expecting more guests at Polaris and I’m expected to believe I have Cedrick to blame.”

His tone was deeply sarcastic. Guests was a euphemism, as was Empathic Research Facility . Polaris was the facility for corrupted empaths, ones who’d been twisted from harmless pacifists into sadistic paranormal killers. Polaris was part of the Stone Solutions web but created and run like its own kingdom by Nichols for more than twenty years.

Or it had been, before Grayson had come along. He wasn’t much older than Polaris itself but had a lot of opinions about how empaths were treated, even the corrupted ones. The Dead Man also had the dubious privilege of being completely unique among the country’s anti-empathy weapons, and so Traynor had forced Nichols to listen to Grayson’s conditions. Nichols wasn’t very fond of Grayson, but being liked was just one more thing Grayson had no feelings about.

Next to Nichols, the president of Stone Solutions Canada, Vivian Marist—American, not Canadian, despite her role—raised a perfectly arched blond eyebrow at FBI Assistant Director Jacobs, who nodded solemnly, like he’d understood whatever invisible message she’d passed him.

“All of us in this room know that a corrupted empath was behind the murders that took place that day, but Cedrick Stone is taking the blame because he masterminded it,” Director Traynor said. “Yes, the empath used emotional control to thrall a senator, and turned several other thralls loose in a bloody rampage, but we have undeniable evidence that Stone was part of the group that chose to corrupt that empath.”

Traynor looked like it pained him to admit it, and maybe it did. Traynor had had a long military career before he’d been appointed to run EI and had known the Stones since their defense contracting days. When you got to the heart of things, empathy organizations were run by money and nepotism, same as most big corporations and government agencies Grayson knew of.

“This room is aware of that little distinction,” Nichols said. “But your precious public isn’t. They only know Stone Solutions lost three of its executives three weeks ago, and the country is outraged and terrified. Everyone wants to know: Who’s going to keep them safe from empathy now?”

Grayson’s watch silently vibrated on his wrist. He glanced down to see a text.

Hey.

Reece.

Marist cut her eyes to Grayson, then lifted her chin. “Stone Solutions will rise to the occasion, as we always do,” she said loftily, and no one would’ve missed her implication that the Dead Man sure wasn’t rising to the occasion. “But as long as Cedrick is still alive, we are not replacing him with a new CEO. The accusations and implications can continue, but Stone Solutions will continue to deny his involvement; anything else would be tantamount to admitting the empaths have won.”

Grayson’s watch buzzed again.

Reece: You around? I don’t know what time zone you’re in.

The Dead Man had a job to do, and no time or desire to spare a thought for anything else. And thus Grayson never shared his personal phone number outside of a select, trusted network of folks in the same business he was.

At least, that had been the case up until three weeks ago.

“EI should release a statement of support for Stone Solutions as a company. There’s something you can do to set people’s minds at ease.” Jacobs gestured at Marist. “You couldn’t ask for a better figurehead to manage this crisis than Vivian here. American Minds Intact loves her, and it would send the right message to the public, to see EI supporting AMI’s top choice.”

And the choke collar on the empaths would stay tight, like EI preferred it.

Marist gave Jacobs a bright smile as Grayson pulled his phone out of his pocket, keeping an ear on the conversation as he tapped out a response to Reece.

Grayson: How do you have time to text? Thought you were moving today.

Some of the directors exchanged nods and glances. “Finally, a voice of reason,” Director Nichols muttered, as he pushed his glasses up again, his nose still shining with sweat, pale blue eyes bloodshot behind the lenses.

Reece: I’m packing.

Grayson: As in still packing or just started?

Reece: There’s barely anything. You could probably carry everything I own in one trip.

“I support Stone Solutions denying Cedrick’s involvement, as obviously we can’t have the truth getting out,” Traynor said. “But we do need to keep up the messaging that empaths are pacifists.”

“Some might say the paranormal ability to read others’ emotions without consent is de facto aggressive, regardless of what the empaths claim to be,” Marist said delicately. “But you should of course endorse the messaging you feel best, Director.”

Grayson flicked his gaze up to Marist. After a moment, he looked back at his phone.

Grayson: Only probably?

Reece: Yes, only PROBABLY—I own a car.

Grayson: Debatable if that tiny thing you drive counts.

Reece: Bigger is only better if we’re talking MPG averages.

Always with the sass. Reece’s willingness to fire back on things he cared about, no matter how scary the target—it tickled something at the back of Grayson’s brain, reminders of other empaths he’d met. He ignored the memories, and they disappeared, unexamined, as his watch vibrated.

Reece: My new place is downtown.

Reece: Downtown where there are lots and lots of people.

The sublet he was taking over was in a high-rise only blocks from the Seattle Police Department’s headquarters.

Grayson: Good. You’re an empath, you need people around for all that empathizing.

Grayson wasn’t someone an empath could empathize with, but he was supposed to have been one of those people around today. He’d had a flight to Seattle booked for that afternoon before Traynor had asked him to come back to DC instead, though Grayson had yet to see what about this meeting required the Dead Man’s presence.

“Maybe we could use this opportunity to lessen the public’s fear of empaths,” Jacobs said, but he sounded dubious.

Nichols frowned. “I don’t think we want to do that. We still don’t know exactly what happened to Cedrick Stone, but multiple eyewitnesses place a Seattle empath, Reece Davies, at the scene on the roof of Stone Solutions—”

“Mr. Davies wasn’t responsible.”

All of the heads at the table snapped in Grayson’s direction. Several eyes narrowed.

And this was the crux of why the room was unhappy with Grayson. They didn’t want Cedrick Stone to be responsible for Senator Hathaway’s murder; they wanted a comfortable scapegoat, someone who wasn’t a billionaire, a CEO, and their golfing buddy.

Too bad. They didn’t get an empath.

Nichols cleared his throat. “Eyewitnesses do say that Stone had blood on his face—”

“He did,” Grayson said. “He also had a head wound.” Grayson ought to know; he’d put it there after Stone had taken a shot at him.

“So you still don’t think the empath should at least be investigated?” Marist said, mild and sweet, like that hadn’t been yet another unsubtle reminder that Grayson was the only one in the room with that opinion.

“No.” Reece already had enough anxiety to power a grid. He didn’t need extra stress.

Nichols turned to Traynor. “Reece Davies was at the scene—”

“Director Traynor, perhaps you could remind the room what I do and where I was,” Grayson said dryly. “I realize our Polaris director is accustomed to the other kind of empath and may have trouble remembering what the pacifists are like, but last I checked, Director Nichols wasn’t the empath specialist who was also at the scene with Mr. Stone and Mr. Davies.”

Nichols folded his arms, but he didn’t speak.

“The empath surrendered,” said Grayson. “There were a dozen police officers there, easy targets for thralling. But even though nothing that had happened was his fault, even though he believed I’d killed his sister , he surrendered. Not sure why I have to keep telling y’all that Mr. Davies is harmless, but he needs to be left alone.”

Nichols and Marist both looked to Traynor.

“Evan’s right,” Traynor said, and he didn’t sound happy but he did sound firm. “Yes, we monitor empaths, but EI policy is not to interfere unless there’s a reason we should.”

“All of them are eventually going to give us a reason,” Nichols muttered. “It’s just a matter of time.”

There was a murmur through the room.

“Funny, the way I see it, the empaths themselves will never give us a reason to worry,” Grayson said. “I keep my eyes on the folks who can’t stop messing with them.”

The room went silent.

Grayson leaned back against the wall again, arms folded. Everything he’d said was the truth. Reece himself hadn’t given anyone a reason to worry. He was another victim in the whole mess, targeted by unethical people who had wanted to see if they could use a stranger’s pain to corrupt him. Completely innocent.

Well. Except for two tiny snags that none of these directors knew about.

For a couple minutes on the roof, Reece had taken full control of Stone’s emotions.

And Reece could hear lies.

“Look,” Traynor said, addressing the table. “If there was any chance the empath could be dangerous, Agent Grayson would have taken him down. He is the best defense we’ve ever had against empathy, and there’s no one we can trust to make a rational, unemotional decision more than the Dead Man. If Agent Grayson says we need to leave Reece Davies alone, then we will.”

The Dead Man wasn’t supposed to hide things from the empath agencies, especially not secrets about empaths. But empaths had never before been known to develop an ability like hearing lies without also becoming corrupted. Reece had somehow managed it; was caught in some kind of liminal state where he had some of the enhanced abilities that made corrupted empaths so dangerous, but with all the pacifism of an uncorrupted empath.

It was supposed to be impossible. Reece’s existence disproved countless papers out there. Every scientist at EI and Stone Solutions would want to know how it had happened.

Might want to know if it could happen again. Might be willing to chance making more corrupted empaths—or finishing the job with Reece—to make it happen.

Grayson had seen firsthand in November that not everyone in the empathy defense circles could be trusted, and so he wasn’t going to trust anyone else with the truth about Reece.

Was Reece at risk of becoming actually corrupted? Absolutely. Was Grayson going to keep an eye on him and make sure that wasn’t happening? Obviously.

Was the Dead Man going to step in and stop Reece if corruption did set in?

Without question.

Grayson’s watch buzzed.

Reece: Jamey and Liam went to find more boxes, it’s too quiet. What were we listening to in your truck a couple weeks ago, while you were flagrantly violating all of my city’s traffic laws? The one in Spanish, I want to play that.

But unless Reece became an actual threat, Grayson would see to it that he was left alone to bitch behind the wheel in peace.

He texted Reece the name of the Puerto Rican artist as the meeting broke up around him. But as Grayson pushed off the wall, Director Traynor called his name. “Evan! A moment?”

This was going to be the real reason Traynor had wanted him at the meeting. Marist was also lingering as Grayson strode over.

Traynor gestured at one of the vacated chairs. “Have a seat.”

Grayson had flown too much and driven too many rentals in the three weeks since he’d left Seattle. Hours crammed into plane cabins made his body restless, and his six-foot-five-inch frame was too tall to drive most cars without his knees constantly banging the steering wheel. He’d had the driver’s seat adjusted in his truck, but he’d left that back at the Seattle airport. “I’ll stand.”

“Suit yourself.” Traynor reached down to grab a laptop bag from the floor and extracted an accordion file. “Here.”

Grayson took it. “What’s this?”

“Everything EI and Stone Solutions have been able to learn about the empath found murdered in Burlington this morning.”

Grayson’s gaze snapped to the folder. He reached in and pulled out the first picture. White woman dressed for winter, maybe late twenties or early thirties, her face bruised and cut. She was lying on ice-frosted grass, brown eyes staring into space and bloodstains soaking the snow under her head. Her gloved hands were crossed on her chest.

He set the picture down on the table between Traynor and Marist. “I don’t recognize her.”

“She’s not one of the American empaths—they’re all accounted for,” said Traynor.

“We think she’s French Canadian,” said Marist. “It’s an easy trip to Vermont from Montreal; she could have been down for a visit, or to see American family.”

“Could have,” Grayson repeated. “You don’t know?”

“Perhaps the Dead Man believes he can cross borders with impunity, but Canada is, in fact, its own country with its own laws, and Stone Solutions must operate within them,” Marist said, as she folded her arms. “Canada is taking cues from Europe, getting stricter about empath privacy, and Quebec has its own empathy agency that is notoriously difficult to deal with.”

“Pretty sure that Canada also regulates empaths at the federal level, not the provincial level,” Grayson said.

“Yes, and Stone Solutions has contacted Affaires D’Empath Quebec to demand records access. We are trying.” Marist tapped the picture, right on the gloves. “In the meantime, however, we have these. The serial number is faded, but the first few numbers align to Stone Solutions’ make, from a shipment sent to Toronto two years ago.”

With the way the empath’s gloved hands were crossed over her chest, the body had to have been deliberately posed. Had the killer wanted it known she was an empath? Grayson pulled the next picture out of the folder, the woman’s body on a stainless steel table. The blood had been wiped away. “How did she die?”

“Blunt force trauma to the back of the head. Facial injuries are suspected to have happened when she hit the ground.” Traynor leaned forward. “We don’t have the weapon or leads. There are American empaths in Albany and Concord, but they weren’t aware of any other empaths visiting Burlington.”

Grayson glanced up. “Were these pictures shown to empaths?”

“With her injuries?” Traynor shook his head. “Obviously not.”

Grayson wouldn’t say obviously ; his faith in both EI and Stone Solutions to do their jobs right was on shaky ground these days. “Were the empaths told she was murdered?”

“Of course not,” Marist said, with a touch of impatience. “You wield a lot of influence within the Empath Initiative, Agent Grayson. Everyone is aware of how delicately you think empaths should be treated.” Her tone made it clear that wasn’t a compliment.

“But Evan,” said Traynor warningly, “if we don’t figure out who she is and why she was killed, we are going to have to start interrogating the other empaths.”

The murdered empath stared blankly at Grayson from her photo. Traynor didn’t know there was an empath in a never-before-seen liminal state in Seattle—that if Grayson was in Vermont, it’d be even longer until he could check on Reece.

But an empath murder needed to be investigated by the Dead Man—especially one where the killer had made the gloves this obvious.

Grayson’s gaze lingered on the picture. “You book my flight to Burlington already?”

“Leaves in two hours,” said Traynor.

Grayson nodded. He walked across the room to pick up his bag as the others stood. After Marist stepped out of the room, however, Traynor joined him at the wall.

“You know, when I created the role of the Dead Man, it was to put non-empaths first,” he said pointedly, as the door closed. “Some of our directors feel like that’s not your priority anymore.”

Grayson could just make out Marist speaking to someone in low tones outside in the hall, not loud enough to be picked up by Traynor’s normal hearing but the words clear to Grayson’s sensitive ears. Has someone arranged your flights back to BC?

First thing tomorrow. That was Dr. Nichols. He must have been waiting for Marist in the hall.

“I’m not in the business of feelings, or making the agencies happy,” Grayson said, even more pointedly. “My job is making sure folks aren’t in danger from corrupted empaths. That also means making sure people don’t get to thinking about corrupting empaths—even if some of our directors would rather I stopped after part one.”

Protection , Reece had called the Dead Man, for the world and for empaths . It was a very pacifist way to describe Grayson, and no one in the room today would have agreed. Reece himself didn’t have any business thinking of Grayson in such warm terms, not when the Dead Man was the closest thing the country had to an empath hunter, but that was an empath for you, not a lick of self-preservation or defense.

“Yes, Evan,” Traynor said impatiently, “but if you keep defending the empaths—”

“Respectfully, Director,” Grayson said, “you of all people know exactly how far I’m willing to go to defend people from empaths.”

Traynor closed his mouth. His lips were pinched, but he didn’t argue any further. He hadn’t made a move to leave, though, so Grayson tilted his head. “Something more I can do for you, sir?”

Please tell me you’re not flying commercial , Marist said to Nichols, out in the hall.

Traynor seemed to be weighing his thoughts. “There’s some new research you should read,” he finally said. “We don’t have time to get into it before your flight, but I’ll forward it over.”

“Never a shortage of folks who think the empaths are a riddle to solve,” Grayson pointed out.

“I know,” he said. “But this new theory might make you think twice about your job .”

The last research paper Traynor had sent Grayson had been written by Nichols, speculating on the possibility of a parasitic relationship between empaths and their siblings. Grayson’s name hadn’t been stated outright in the research, but only a handful of siblings had developed enhanced strength and senses while growing up alongside an empath, and it wasn’t hard to guess the sources behind Nichols’ conclusions.

Only one of those empath siblings had become the Dead Man, after all.

But that was in the past. Grayson’s brother was gone, and if Traynor thought sharing new theories could change how Grayson saw his job, he was wasting both their time. The Dead Man didn’t care about hypotheticals and what-ifs; all he needed to know was if anyone was sharing those conspiracies outside of their circles.

Out in the hall, Marist was still talking to Nichols. There’s no need for you to wait until morning. I have the company jet and I’m heading to Seattle tonight; we can arrange your other flights from there. Director Traynor mentioned he was heading out to Seattle as well; I bet we can convince him that it makes sense to share the plane. The chef is planning surf and turf—a favorite of his. Why shouldn’t he join us?

Why not, indeed. Just the pesky little question of impartiality from government employees dining on steak and lobster in private planes owned by corporations that wanted to ensure their taxpayer funding never dried up.

Grayson grabbed his duffel bag off the floor and tucked the accordion folder into it before he hoisted it onto his shoulder. As he left the building, navigating the snowy walk toward his rental, his watch buzzed with another text.

Reece: You know, it’s not good for me to be living around other people when I might be dangerous.

Grayson had emails to read. He needed to get to the airport. He needed to call Dr. Aisha Easterby, doctor turned medical examiner and one of his few trusted contacts, to tell her about the murder and see what she thought. She might very well want to hop her own flight east.

Except as he climbed into his rental car, he found himself texting Reece back.

Grayson: But that’s why you’ve got my number, right? There is nothing you can do that I can’t stop. You can never be more dangerous than me.

He turned the engine over.

Reece: I thought I had your number because you know you’re a menace behind the wheel and someone needs to remind you of those pesky public safety laws you ignore.

Unbelievable .

Grayson: I just told you I’m more dangerous than you and your response is to backseat drive from across the continent?

Reece: I think we need to have a conversation about your driving.

Grayson: No, we need to have a conversation about your complete lack of survival instinct.

Reece: Sorry I care about the SURVIVAL of the people who have to share the road with you.

If Reece thought that was gonna get a rise out of Grayson, he had the wrong man. Grayson didn’t feel annoyance, or aggravation, or frustration, or anything else. He couldn’t.

The Dead Man was able to do his job because he’d been changed by his now-gone empath brother, and he was no longer capable of feeling anything at all.

And that was never gonna change.