Page 60 of Girl, Bound

And he had reveled init, the power that came with holding the keys to another's destruction. He hadblackmailed, extorted, driven his victims to the brink of madness with theknowledge that their lives could be shattered with the click of a mouse.

But even monsters havetheir breaking points, the moment when the weight of their sins becomes toomuch to bear. For him, it had come in the form of a noose, a bottle of pills, adesperate attempt to silence the screaming in his head.

But death had rejectedhim, spat him back out into the world like a piece of rotten meat. And in theaftermath, as he lay broken and bleeding.

A final suicideattempt involved a body bag and an animal sedative. He’d injected the poisoninto his veins, then cocooned himself inside a body bag. Trapped himself in abag that didn’t open from the inside and let the darkness swallow him whole.

He wasn’t sure howlong the bag held him captive. He blacked out, but somehow, perhaps throughsome miracle or divine intervention, he emerged from the bag. The zip sliddown, welcoming him back to the land of the living. The poison vacated hissystem. And in that moment, he had been reborn as a warrior, a survivor.

It changed him. Madehim a new person. He no longer had an urge to blackmail or extort. Suicide nolonger called out to him. He was a human being, blessed with the gift of life.

But the change wasincomplete, the transformation only half-realized. He knew, with a certaintythat bordered on religious fervor, that he must share this dark gift withothers, guide them through the same crucible that had remade him.

And so he had begunhis great work.

He had taken them,dragged them down into the depths of their own personal hells. With needle andpoison, with darkness and confinement, he had stripped them down to theiressential selves, peeled away the layers of lies and self-deception until onlythe raw, pulsing core remained.

None had emerged fromthe chrysalis. None had been reborn. Their minds and bodies were too weak towithstand the rigors of the process.

But in the end, itmattered not. The work was all, the path to enlightenment, a road paved withthe bones of the unworthy. And he had to admit, even to himself, that survivingan ordeal that others couldn't filled him with a mighty sense of superiority.

And now, as he watchedhis final disciple stumble into the trap he had so carefully laid, he knew thathis own journey was nearing its end. The last of the sedative coursed throughhis veins. It was a finite resource that could not be replenished.

He would make this onecount, pour every ounce of his dark wisdom, his hard-won knowledge into thevessel before him. And then, when the deed was done, when the final test hadbeen administered, he would fade away. Perhaps move far away to another town, aplace where no one knew his name or his past.

The hunger rose upinside him. With a shuddering breath, he stepped out of the car, the syringeclutched tight in his fist.

It was time. Time tounleash the beast one last time, to revel in the sweet agony of transformation.

CHAPTER THIRTY TWO

The precinct was amadhouse of chaos and confusion. Ella waded through the sea of blue. She couldfeel the tension in the air, the crackle of raw nerves and frayed tempers.

In the holding cell,Eddie Shawcross was putting on a show, his voice rising to a fever pitch as heproclaimed his innocence to anyone who would listen. Ella watched him throughthe bars, a pathetic figure in a cage, his skinny arms waving like a conductorwho’d lost control of his orchestra.

‘I didn't doanything,’ the man screamed. ‘Nothing. You’ve got the wrong man.’

Holbrook leanedagainst the wall, arms crossed over his chest like a king surveying his domain.

‘Give it a rest,Eddie,’ he drawled. ‘We found the body bags in your house, remember? Game'sover, pal.’

Shawcross let out ahowl, a sound of pure anguish that made Ella's skin crawl. ‘Those bags aren'tmine!’ he wailed, fingers clawing at the air. ‘They belonged to my friends, mybuddies from the war. Those bags had heroes in them.’

Ella felt a pang ofsympathy. Shawcross was a wreck, a man haunted by demons that none of themcould see. She could read the pain in his eyes, the scars that ran soul-deep.

But Holbrook justlaughed. ‘Sure, Eddie. Whatever you say. I'm sure the jury will be realsympathetic to your little sob story.’

The other cops joinedin, a chorus of jeers and catcalls that made Ella's blood boil. She opened hermouth to tear them a new one, but before she could get a word out, Ripley camebarreling in like a freight train on fire.

‘What the hell isgoing on here? Why is everyone standing around with their thumbs up theirasses?’ She gestured to Holbrook. ‘Sheriff, there’s a new suspect upstairs.’

Ella turned to herpartner and filled her in. ‘And another one down here. Holbrook got a tip thatthat guy – Eddie Shawcross – had body bags in his house. They raided the place,found a couple of old ones in the basement. Now they're convinced he's our guy.’

She pointed to theevidence bag on the counter, the worn and tattered body bag inside. Ripleysnatched it up, her nose wrinkling in disgust.

‘This thing looks likeit's been through the wringer,’ she said, turning it over in her hands. ‘It'snot even close to the ones our killer used. Those were pristine, sterile. Thismight as well be a garbage bag.’

‘I know. But trytelling that to Holbrook. He's got a hard-on for Shawcross, thinks he's somekind of criminal mastermind. Never mind that the guy looks too frail to tie hisown shoes.’

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