Epilogue
LONDON
Hawthorne Cemetery sits on a pocket of rolling hills in my family’s hometown. Fall leaves, fading from lively green to hues of red and orange, dust the corner of the graveyard, covering mounds of dry grass.
I’ve now visited twice. Once to see where my parents lay in rest, and today to see my sister, Mia, in her final resting place next to them.
Jacqueline and Phillip Prescott—my biological parents—share one large alabaster headstone, so I had Mia’s designed in the same marble finish, and purchased the plot next to theirs.
I walk toward the headstones with my wool coat pulled closed, my dark hair whipping my cheeks in the unforgiving Cincinnati wind. I stop at the foot of their graves.
The branches rustle in the breeze above, stirring the only sound in the otherwise silent cemetery. I’m alone, and I realize with a startling truth that, when my time comes, there will be no place for me.
Just as well. I don’t really belong here, with them, after all.
My life awaits me back in San Francisco, where Grayson is pursuing our newest patient, getting to know our soon-to-be victim.
David Lyman has a preference for young girls.
He sought out my services because his daughter is about to turn thirteen.
He didn’t admit as much to me during our introductory session, but Grayson knows where to look to uncover the truth.
I plan to exercise David’s demons, making sure that he ends his life before he has the chance to get at his daughter.
Then, Grayson and I will move to another country for a time. Our plan is to keep relocating. Leaving behind no more than one victim in each place.
My death… Well, hopefully that’s further off.
I walk toward the middle of the plots and place a single sprig of lilac on my mother’s grave, then white roses on my father’s and Mia’s. I learned that my mother loved lilacs; it was her favorite flower. My first home—the one I can’t recall—still has lilacs planted below the windows.
Some things are inherent in us. Some memories buried so deep, our unconscious mind clinging to them, even when tragedy tries to strip us of our identities, a trace remains.
I’m making peace with Lydia.
A noise to my left—the snap of a twig.
I whirl around to locate the sound and spot a squirrel. My held breath releases in a whoosh, fogging the air. I turn to leave, and something catches my attention between the trees. A hulking figure—
I look again, but other than the squirrel, there’s nothing there. Just the shadow of a tall pine cast over the graves.
It’s not the first time I’ve thought I’ve seen Foster nearby. Every once in a while my paranoia creeps up, usually when it’s too quiet, too still. Like now. I brush the eerie sensation off and start toward the pebbled pathway.
I met with Foster right before I moved away from Maine. He checks in on me every now and again, just to make sure I’m all right, as we still remain friends in a sense.
He asked me about the knife.
Although he corroborated my account in the garage, he wasn’t—technically—present during the final act. For that one minute while he struggled to climb the shipping container, when Grayson and Nelson went over the edge, Foster didn’t have sight of us.
During our conversation, I played confused, but I knew what he wanted to know: How did Grayson’s switchblade end up at the bottom of the container? It was a gnarled mess by the time forensics recovered it, but it could still be identified. Unlike flesh and bone, steel is a little more resistant.
I told Foster that it’s possible Grayson stabbed Nelson before they went over. Everything happened so quickly…
He accepted my answer with a curt nod, but I could still see a trace of doubt in his eyes, that compulsive need he has as a lifelong detective to close out every angle of the case.
Should Foster prove to be a problem, we’ll manage him. Maybe Foster even realizes the danger in this…or maybe it’s nothing at all. My mind playing tricks on me.
Pebbles crunch beneath my heels as I progress along the path, and then I feel it—his eyes on me. His presence near.
An arm wraps around my waist, drawing me against him.
“You have got to stop doing that,” I say to Grayson as I sink against his chest.
“You have got to be more aware of your surroundings,” he retorts. Then his lips find my neck, chasing away the chill and sending a shiver over my skin at the same time.
“Do you think…?” I hedge.
“No,” he answers simply. “We’re safe, London. We’re free.”
I breathe a little easier, accepting this. In another few months we’ll be leaving the country, and then I can finally relax, too far away for my demons to follow.
As we leave the cemetery, I study Grayson’s profile, thinking about how, if I were truly safe, he wouldn’t be here. Then I shake the thought from my head and take his hand in mine.
Grayson says I’m his angel, but it’s he who watches over me. My dark protector.
Not all demons are born to the dark, and not all angels seek the light. Sometimes our circumstance demands a fusion of both. There is no good and evil, only the time spent between both heaven and hell, where we find our peace.
And love.
Even the vilest of monsters deserve to be loved.
Thank you so much, lovely reader, for taking this dark journey with London and Grayson, for reading my work. You are why I write.
Want more London and Grayson? If you’ve made it this far, I hope you’ll continue down the rabbit hole even further with my next thrilling romance duet Cruel Malady, where you’ll follow Grayson’s twisted web as he and London entangle Dr. Alex Chambers and Blakely Vaughn in their mind games.
Both Grayson and London make cameo appearances. Read a teaser below.
Start reading Cruel Malady now
And don’t forget to grab the London & Grayson extended epilogue novella here .
ALEX
“Lilah—” I call out. When she doesn’t respond, I put myself right in her path. “I didn’t think that was your name.”
“You’re a clever one.” She tucks her clutch under her arm and squares her shoulders. “None of the girls go by their names.”
None of the girls. As if she’s simply one of them. “Then what’s yours?” I demand.
“Whatever you want it to be, baby,” she fires back.
My mouth slants disapprovingly. That line doesn’t suit her. While psych has never been my strength, it’s obvious she exhibits some of the desired characteristics on the Dirty Dozen scale—an evaluation to determine if a person fits the dark triad.
I imagine most escorts demonstrate some tendency toward these traits—Machiavellianism, narcissism, psychopathy—as they need a certain level of manipulative tactics to control their clientele.
It’s just plain survival instinct.
Slipping my phone into my pocket, I step closer to her. “I noticed you don’t seem too interested in entertaining your clients.”
“And you seem to notice a lot,” she says, her gaze tracking over me deliberately. “I notice a lot, too, like the fact your name isn’t Hunter. Not according to your credit card, Alex.”
A heated spark shoots through my veins, and I’m buzzing. She just ticked up the score on her assessment.
“You’re extremely observant,” I say. “Maybe I wasn’t comfortable enough to give my real name, either.”
Her gaze narrows. She doesn’t believe me.
“Look. My time is better spent entertaining in private. That’s what my clientele pay for.
Which”—she makes it a point to glance over my clothes—“I’m sorry to say, is very out of your price range.
” She levels me with a severe glare. “You should leave, whoever you are.”
Those eyes…that stare… God, her cold gaze is unnerving.
I lean in toward her and lower my voice to an audible whisper. “You’re not a whore.”
Her blood-red lips tip upward, her smile disarming. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”
“You’re not an escort,” I clarify.
“Companion.” She corrects me, stressing the word.
I shake my head, not convinced. “What are you, undercover? FBI? Trying to take down an escort ring or underground fights? Does it have to do with Ericson and his firm?”
The value of a predator is unrecognized, unappreciated. I’m not one to take predators for granted. Her skills are so fucking valuable. Whatever this woman’s purpose here tonight, it’s not to provide physical pleasure. In truth, I’m probably doing Ericson a favor.
Our moment is disrupted as a guy comes around the corner. Lilah uses the opportunity to inch closer to me. Her body presses against mine, her curves mold perfectly to the contour of my form. She’s a distraction in all the wrong ways, and she knows this. She uses her body as a weapon.
“Whatever your kink is,” she whispers, her tone seductive, “I’m not into it. Maybe Sophie or one of the other girls would be interested.”
“I don’t think Sophie is my type.” No—none of them are the type I need. I’ve found exactly what I’m looking for.
The first step in the scientific method is to identify, and I’ve just identified my new subject. A thrill courses through my blood as I stare into the eyes of a psychopath.
She’s the one.
“Trust me,” she says. “I’m definitely not your type.” As she turns to walk away, I grab her arm, and that’s a mistake.
The realization comes with a shock—a literal electric shock that sends a pulse of 20,000 volts into my body.
I hit the floor. My body convulses with spasms as I stare up at her, noting the small Taser clutched in her hand.
Christ.
Read Blakely and Alex’s story Cruel Malady