Page 6 of Forget Me Twice

“Acquired Savant Syndrome. Photographic memory, withperfectrecall abilities.”

Now I roll my eyes towards the ceiling. At this moment, I feel distinctly less like a teenage girl and more like a circus sideshow. He’s having me perform his tricks like a show pony and all I want is to put as much space between Mayor Grayson and myself as physically possible.

I half expect him to keep throwing inane memory tests at me, now that he’s dropped all pretenses. Instead, he looks me dead in the eye and says, “I want you to come work for me.”

I don’t stop the half scoff-laugh that falls from my lips. “Come work for you? What, for the Mayor’s office? No thanks.”

I throw a last, doleful glance towards my mug of disappointment, then smack my hands on the arms of the chair, ready to push up and make tracks. I haven’t even managed to lift myself out of the armchair when he drops his next metaphorical bomb.

“Sabine, sweetheart. Surely a street-wise girl like you has heard of theGray Man?” The question is so slippery and chilled in its delivery, his tone practicallyarctic.

As the horror his words brings sets in, I can feel a sharp little kick of adrenaline up under my ribs. Any other time, that sweet zing of fear would be welcome, the rush of it working to calm the storm that’s been growing day by day in my head.

Instead, my hands slip off the arms of the chair and land back gracelessly in my lap. I feel boneless and disoriented. No doubt my complexion now resembles something akin to the color of his infamousnom de guerre.

Have I heard of the Gray Man?

Have I. Heard…?

I’m not sure what this feeling bubbling in my guts now is. I want to say it’s hysteria. It’s doing a good job of drowning out the chaotic thrumming in my skull though.

Everyonein Lexington—hell, probably everyone in the state—has heard tales of the Gray Man.

Yes, even urchins hear the things whispered about the sinister crime lord, at all times flanked by several of his notorious army of henchmen. The Gray Men. Known colloquially as ‘The Suits’. One of our first lessons out here on the streets is to avoid them at all costs. Don’t see. Don’t hear. Don’t interfere.

They have a well-dressed stranglehold on near goddamn everything in this city—guns, drugs, gambling, clubs, protection.

And obviously, politics.

I have no doubt they’re the puppet masters behind Lexington’s many misdeeds and scandals; the rumors of which always seem to hit the street without fail.

Now—nowit makes sense.

That puremaliceI can feel emanating from this man. It’s so potent you can almostfeelit, like a physical brush across your skin. For three days it’s been tripping my inbuilt Bogeyman danger-sense. The set of instincts that all street kids have, loudly telling me tostay the fuck away!

Only the Gray Manisour Bogeyman. The reason my earlier mafioso jest was just that—a joke. Because thereareno Russian or Italian mob families left in power in Lexington—there are only The Suits and their clandestine gangland bullshit.

And the Gray Man is ourfucking Mayor?!

My mind is buzzing with this bizarre revelation, but one thought is clear. Working for Sebastian Grayson? I’d wager it’s a matter of damned if I do, dead if I don’t.

A cell pings in his pocket, and I hold my breath. Hopefully there are some baby cheeks that need kissing, or more likely, some kneecaps that need breaking, and he will leave me in peace.

He doesn’t glance at the phone as he stands to pull it out. He just slides it across the table, much like he did the contract. “Yours,” he says simply. “Instructions for the commencement of your employment have been sent via text.” He looks down his nose at me. Those cavernous, deep-sea eyes are harsh, and that commanding tone is back in full force. “Don’t disappoint me.”

Then he picks up his bag and strides away, disappearing out the front door like he was never even here; like he didn’t just bulldoze my whole goddamn life into a fresh pile of rubble.

As soon as the navy suit and dark hair are no longer in my line of sight, I take a big, gulping breath. Snapping my eyes shut, I slump down miserably in the seat until my chin hits my chest. Then I contemplate the very probable end of my life, while absently pressing two fingers against my scar.

He knows my name, what I look like and where to find me. Somehow, I don’t think the wordnois in this man’s vocabulary.

Guess that means I’m now working for Sebastian Grayson.

The Mayor of Lexington.

The goddamn Gray Man.

This week’swar council is barely in session and already I’m praying silently for the sweet release of death.

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