Page 172 of Wicked Little Secret

Pick your poison.

Choose which is worse.

Which is more humiliating for the Castlebury PD?

For a gruff, no-nonsense man like Brewster, it’s the latter. The idea that he’s facilitating the Valentine Killer’s release is torture for him. A little hunch tells me he’d rathereat only salad every day for the rest of his life. A challenge for a man of his generous size.

But I’ve kept the faith. I’ve bided my time. I’ve never once wavered, even as others scoffed and mocked the idea of me providing my own legal defense.

Admittedly, it can often be a disaster regardless of the defendant’s profession. There have been numerous arrogant lawyers who have attempted to represent themselves in a court trial that wound up sorely regretting their decision.

Still, I never second-guessed mine.

I knew from the moment I fulfilled Nyssa’s revenge scheme that I would sacrifice myself. Once the case moved to trial, I would rely on no one but myself to earn my freedom back. If I failed, it would be with the knowledge that I had done what I promised I would.

I had given my life up for the woman I love.

After what happened to Josalyn and my failure to save her, I refused to make the same mistake twice.

Nyssa needed to know how much she meant to me. She was worth giving it all up for.

She was worth everything…

“Adler,” Brewster grunts when I don’t move from the twin-sized bed chained to the wall. “Hurry the piss up. I ain’t got all day, and if you want to get out of here today, get a move on.”

I snap out of my reverie with a subtle nod of my head.

There are little to no belongings to collect. Two years in jail, awaiting trial, standing trial, awaiting the verdict, and the only belongings I have are a handful of letters and my favorite book on criminal law theory that I was allowed to keep in my cell.

Officer Brewster glares at me asI cross the jail cell’s threshold and walk past him. The iron-barred door clangs shut and the keys attached to his hips rattle. He pushes past me without anexcuse me, his shoulder knocking into mine.

“This way, Adler.”

I follow, more amused than I have been in a while.

Except for maybe during the trial, where I got to humiliate the assistant district attorney and his entire prosecutorial team.

Brewster brings me to the processing desk. I stand before the Emma that Theo had made a huge deal about seeing again, though she refuses to meet my eyes as she processes my discharge from the jail.

I don’t take it personally. Many people become uncomfortable around suspected serial killers.

Let alone real ones.

Emma may not know which I am, but the possibility is unnerving enough for a bland woman such as herself, who eats granola for breakfast and considers purple hair dye peak rebellion.

I step out of the police station breathing in the fresh, warm summer air. The sun’s high in the sky and there isn’t a cloud to be found.

Neither is Theo’s Volkswagen Beetle.

Unfortunately, you’re not allowed cars while in jail, so mine is presumably still parked in front of my house.

Theo was supposed to be here to pick me up.

Through my jail time and court trial, she’s been just about the only support I’ve had. Dad long ago abandoned any association with me, choosing his reputation over the possibility that his son was the Valentine Killer. Mom’s been in such emotional hysterics, she’s decided to remain overseas for another few years (a convenient excuse, as far as I’m concerned).

But Theo showed up for every visitor weekend. She placed phone calls and wrote letters—the stack of letters I have are all exclusively from her. My sister proved she truly would stick by me if I ever needed help burying a body at three a.m.

Luckily, for her, after the past two and a half years of my life, I have no intention of ever going near a dead body again.

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