Chapter 23 Cassiopeia’s Gambit #4
My chest constricts. “I thought this because of what I found.” I tap the corner of the page. “This is the clearance workup, Orion. The version that was filed with the university.”
I lift the second sheet that displays the same header, same date, but the readout is different. “And this is the original,” I explain. “The one that mentions ventricular enlargement. It recommends a follow-up.”
The damage wouldn’t have been obvious after his wreck, taking time to build. And unless symptoms were reported, to know where to focus, it’s the kind of finding that’s easily overlooked.
I lower the pages. “Then I realized who would benefit more from keeping a progressive neurological condition like hydrocephalus hidden. From the board. From the university.” I take a slow, steady breath. “Even from you.”
Banner’s words echo back at me from beneath the colonnade that day: I’ve done my best to protect him.
“Banner was raking in funding off of you,” I tell him. “But as you became erratic, difficult to control, especially with violent incidents and large expenditures, he needed a contingency—”
“Leo brought you here to diagnose my condition,” he says, his incredulous laugh a bitter sound in his throat. “To get me out of the way. Free of any blame.”
“Yes,” I answer him, softening my voice.
I push my hair over my shoulder as I lower myself closer.
His body heat seeps through the shirt, making me shiver.
“But this explains what you’ve been experiencing.
Headaches. Blurred vision. Cognitive lapses.
Impaired impulse control. Bouts of anger and violent outbursts.
Even sadistic urges and compulsions toward deviancy. ”
A weak smile tips his mouth. “You might as well label me a madman.”
An ache burrows deep, and I slide a tender touch over his chest. “As your memories deteriorate, it’s like sensing a stranger in your own mind,” I confirm. “Often a violent one, allowing a darker, destructive nature to take up residence.”
His fingers clench around the chess piece, knuckles paling—and for a torturous moment, I’m tempted to release him, craving to feel his touch just once more…
I force myself to retreat a safe measure. “Orion, your need for the rush is a way to fight the literal tide swelling inside your skull,” I say gently. “It’s the intracranial pressure, rising and falling like ocean waves, squeezing away cognition.”
The queen drops from his grasp, clattering against the floor. A flutter attacks my chest, my heart banging against my rib cage.
“This is why you’re so obsessive about your research,” I press on, making him hear me. “Why you’ve been trying so desperately to retrieve those lost echoes—your memories.”
He drags in a breath, tension tight in the line of his jaw. His silence pulls taut between us as my fingertips lift hesitantly, tracing the spiral of inked stars winding along his bicep.
“You’ve imprinted them onto yourself,” I whisper, following the path up his forearm. “Creating a mnemonic map, like a memory palace, coded from celestial charts and symbolic imagery. Recording your memories helps you remember what you feel is important.”
It’s why it’s not obvious that he’s losing any important ones. I wonder how often he has to decode them, to modify the ink. If he’s left the most painful memories out, willing to let them fade, and an unbidden thought of Emma enters my mind.
“God, you’re so fucking clever, starling,” he finally says. Though this time, his words hold no amusement.
On impulse, my gaze flicks to the starling inked across his hand, just above the leather belt. My first hint to this terrifying secret of his. It was there on the shore, in the waning light, when the pieces began to slot painfully into place.
I reach up and grasp his hand, interlacing our fingers. I press the tips of mine against the glyphs above his knuckles. His code inked in stark black.
● | ∥ φ ★
One dot. One line. Two parallel lines. Phi. And a five-point star.
Fibonacci mapped into his skin, his tapping ritual counting toward the golden ratio of phi, where he applies a heavier pressure to the seventh tap—a sequence progressing toward symmetry, toward that universal constant.
I brush my thumb over the ink, a hollow burn flaring in my throat. His access code imprinted here in case he forgets it, obsessively tapping it, fearful of losing its rhythm.
Always twelve beats. Until the moment he incorporated one extra with his ring finger—the symbolic heart vein—marking an anomaly.
“An extra tap,” I whisper across his lips, glancing again at the starling—the ink darker, newer.
His jaw clenches, a vulnerable truth locked behind his guarded eyes.
“You added the starling to your mnemonic map recently.” My gaze traces the shaded feathers. “It’s not just an update to your code so you don’t forget. Starling…the way you use it as an endearment—it’s a memory recall,” I say, the ache painful, “so you don’t forget me.”
He wove me into his most vital memory.
“But the little things, like giving me your umbrella in the rain, you don’t remember. Not every moment can be recorded.”
“All the big and little things,” he whispers roughly, his fingers tensing around mine. “I wanted to remember them all. I thought I did.” A melancholic smile ghosts his lips, and seeing it chisels at the hardened wall around my heart.
“For what it’s worth, thank you,” I tell him softly. “These past few months… Yes, Orion. I was happy.”
His voice breaks on a harsh breath. “I don’t want to lose you.”
The raw emotion behind his words resonates with a dual truth, honing the piercing ache behind my ribs. With one last, lingering touch, my fingers graze the starling, wondering what other pieces of our story he’s encoded on himself. What of our time together he didn’t want to forget.
I force myself to release his hand. “I’m not who you think I am,” I confess. “You should let me go. Let Collins go.”
I glance toward the darkened lab, finding the robotic arm stationed in the corner. The automated instrument he uses to tattoo his memories. “Cover this up,” I tell him as I draw my hand away from his.
Willing strength into my body, I lift away from him and drop my legs over the side of the bed. As I stand, I place the rest of the printed pages on his chest.
“If left untreated,” I say, injecting a clinical tone into my voice to curb the tremor, “your condition will worsen, deteriorating more of your memory. I’ve printed the treatment you need to receive. Immediately,” I stress.
It was never me carving at Orion’s stone—it was the relentless water. A ruthless tide eroding him little by little, wearing him away until he’s eventually as empty and hollow as the darkest voids of space.
Not long from now, if he doesn’t act to correct course, he might not even remember me.
After all the time that’s passed, he won’t reclaim everything, but he can help prevent further, severe loss. And maybe he’ll even remember who Emma truly was to him. At the thought, I glance at the time on one of the mounted monitors, a tight pinch in my chest speeding my pulse.
There’s a slight tendon flex along his wrist, and his shoulder shifts, confirming that the paralytic is wearing off.
“You should start to regain full mobility within minutes,” I say.
“I suggest you use your time wisely instead of chasing after me.” My gaze clashes with his, those deep, endless oceans rocking through me.
“Not only is it likely someone here suspects you, may even be feeding information to the Feds, but there’s an FBI agent here at Stonehurst. I’m not sure if he’s alone, or if there are more. But he’s looking for you, Orion.”
I turn away, ready to abandon this haunted place. Steeling myself, I pick up my boots and head toward the staircase—then pause. “Just out of curiosity,” I say, keeping my back to him, “what did you do with the skulls?” I glance over my shoulder. “Trophies—or just a counter-forensic measure?”
A faint, devious smile curls the corner of his mouth. “We have to keep a little mystery, don’t we, baby.” He sends me a wink.
Fortifying my resolve, I face the staircase—
“Collins.”
The subtle command of his voice pulls me to a halt, my pulse racing against every second slipping away.
“This changes nothing,” Orion says, his voice firm with conviction.
“Dammit,” I mutter.
With wavering steps, I turn and close the distance to him, compelled by a desperate impulse I can’t deny. Leaning down, I trace my fingertips across his smooth jaw, guiding him as I press my lips to his.
I kiss Orion slowly, deeply. A kiss infused with aching tenderness and heartbreak and everything left unfinished between us. The fractured chords of my heart align one last time to the strong, steady rhythm of his pulse.
“You were worth the risk,” I say against his mouth, giving him the answer to his question. “You were worth risking my heart.”
Then, wrenching myself away, I rush from the sub-level, forbidding myself another glance back.
On my way out of the facility, I grab my stashed burner phone, making a snap decision as I eye Orion’s gear. As I slip on his leather jacket, an ache flares beneath my breastbone as his familiar scent envelops me. I snatch his keys and force myself toward the arched doors.
The campus is dark and silent, shrouded in predawn mist. Only the gargoyles and stone statues bear witness to my escape as I make my way across the wet pavement.
As I seat myself on Orion’s motorcycle, a twinge of longing surfaces, and I try to suppress the phantom feel of him between my thighs, the comforting strength of his arms around me as waves crashed and roared.
Fingers trembling from the cold, I place the call.
Laurel picks up. “Did you find him?”
I draw in a steadying breath, committing to memory the mist and salty scent of ocean and his warm, rich notes. “I found what I needed.”
“Good girl,” my mentor says.
Orion taught me one other thing about patterns, about how to recognize the more elusive ones. Something I wouldn’t have been able to connect without him; this vital piece that I need to hunt my killer. For that, and for so much more, I’m forever indebted to him.
However little time that forever may be.
A foggy breath shudders out, and I press my hand to my chest. I tap his count against my bone, grounding my pulse to his soothing rhythm to stabilize my heartbeat, breathing in box counts of four.
“Tell me what’s wrong.” An edge of concern threads Laurel’s voice.
You’re not supposed to get too close to your mark. You’re not supposed to fall in love with them.
“Nothing,” I assure her. “I’m fine. Just ready for this to finally be done.”
Her tone softens. “I know.” A weighted pause. “Did you clean up the loose end?”
“Yes.”
It’s the first lie I’ve ever told her.
I was also never supposed to leave Orion alive.
But he and I—we’re the same species of hunter. We feed on the same toxins.
“Where did you stash the emergency bag?” I ask her as I key the ignition.
“At the Shorehaven port. Locker thirteen.”
A bitter, breathless laugh escapes before I silence the sound. “Of course.” My throat constricts around a knot. “Headed there now. And…thank you, Laurel. For getting the report for me, and finding the discrepancy in the imaging record.”
There’s a heavy pause before she says, “You did him a mercy, Hollyn.”
I swallow the fiery ache. “I know.”
“Just be safe,” she says gently.
With a rigid nod she can’t see, I end the call.
It was Dr. Laurel Montgomery who pulled the canvas away on that late winter evening as I floated dead for over three minutes under forest branches, who breathed new air into my lungs and gave me new life—helping Hollyn Cawthorn remain dead, so my killer wouldn’t see me coming.
She saved me in more ways than one.
By bringing me into the fold. Offering shelter, a home. A purpose, after mine was stolen. A professional ballet dancer whose bright future fractured as violently as her heart—a heart unable ever again to sustain the rigorous demands of a dancer’s life.
Then Laurel guided me, maneuvering me into a new role with strategic references. First into the FBI, then ViCAP, granting me access to the most sophisticated databases. Another way to perform, on another stage, choreographing another dance.
One of revenge.
As Laurel once told me: There’s no better way to hunt a predator than from the inside.
I lower Orion’s helmet over my head and buckle the chin strap, no longer fearing the dark, confining space. I turn the key, and the bike rumbles to life. I then mirror every action I watched Orion perform on his bike as I ride off, disappearing from Stonehurst.
Aggressive mimicry is how the female firefly lures males from different species. By mimicking their flash signals, she’s able to capture them, consume them. It’s more than sating a hunger—it’s survival. By eating her prey, she absorbs defensive toxins, protecting herself against predators.
And I’ve spent every moment since my death feasting on the vilest males of the most predatory species. Building up toxins. Strengthening defenses. Perfecting my survival skills.
Some monsters can only be hunted by darker ones.
As I throttle onto the empty stretch of highway, putting the ocean behind me, I search for that sense of closure I should feel in this moment, the completeness promised by Gestalt’s law of closure.
Our minds instinctively fill in the missing pieces to complete a whole, driven by the compulsion to perceive meaning in the fragmented, in the broken. It’s why artists leave negative spaces. Why storytellers leave their endings unfinished—
Because the empty places haunt us.
Because absence leaves us hungry, wanting more.
Because we’re never truly complete or whole. And nothing ever ends, not really.
My life is defined by a before and after.
Before I took my last breath, and him.
The man who killed me.
Now, twice over.
A derisive laugh chokes free. I didn’t think he could kill me more, that I had nothing else left to take. But now he’s stolen this, too—a second chance at life, with a man I could’ve loved—
If only my heart wasn’t bad.
Yet in death, she will have her revenge.
And this time, I’m taking my killer with me to the fucking grave.