Page 80 of They Call Me Wicked

Nic was more right than he knew…if she were any kind of mother to me at all, she wouldn’t have been down there in the first place.

I’m starting to wonder if I’m losing myself in this case. My stalker, though murderous and vile in his tactics, helped me cut that last bit of string holding me to my mother. I don’t know if I’m thanking him per se, but the knowledge is there. And now I’m scared that I’m going to blur the lines between criminal and protector in my own mind.

Which is just all sorts of fucked up.

I may skirt the law when I’m working cases, but I’ve alway been on the good side of things. At least, I like to believe I am. I may have empathized with a couple of them, like The Vigilante, who only ever wanted justice for what happened to his sister and niece, but I never forgot that he was still a criminal. He took those lives when they weren’t his to take, instead of letting the justice system handle it. And that’s where he went wrong.

But a small part of me now wonders…if theyreallyweren’t his lives to take. Isn’t it just a tiny bit fair to think that they forfeited their lives to him the moment they took the only two souls he loved from his world? Isn’t that just a little bit justified?

On that same line of thinking, wouldn’t that mean my stalker–knowing I’m incapable of seeking my own justice and that the system has failed to find it for me–is sort of vindicated in acting as my own personal vigilante?

I really don’t know.

But I do know one thing…I’m still going to catch him.

24

Afterhoursof questions and crime scene bullshit, the guys and I finally make it home, exhaustion settling deep in our bones and dampening the already somber mood. Heavy grief weighs on me with the knowledge that I’ve finally cut my mother out for good. Though a part of me is just…relieved.

I can finally move past my worries for her, though I know her adjustment intoblind lifewon’t be easy, it’s not my problem to fix. She made it clear what I mean to her, and my stalker made it clear what she means to me.

Nothing. She means nothing.

There’s still a lot I need to do in this case, a lot of puzzle pieces I need to put together, but I’m determined more than ever to see the entire picture. And it starts with that hunk of metal from my dad’s car.

I’m still not quite sure why I didn’t tell Alan about it. My rationale just comes up blank, and all of my thought processes lead me back to one thing: he should have been there. Sure, I didn’t detect a lie or any form of deceit when he said he got into a wreck, but that means nothing these days. If my stalker–and Ezra–can make it past my visions and psychic abilities with ease, who else can?

It doesn’t matter that I know he cares for me, and wants to protect me, because guess what? So does my stalker. He’s shown it in all kinds of terrifying ways, sure, but he does. I’m not sure if I think Alan and my stalker are one and the same but, if I’m being honest with myself, there’ssomethingthere.

What has Alan wanted from me since the day I started working for the department? To stop putting myself in danger to solve cases. I’m impulsive and reckless at times, and I know I’ve made it entirely too difficult on him in a lot of ways. So…along comes a murderous stalker who somehow knows every little thing about my abilities, and he now has a reason to bench me. To only bring me out for my visions and nothing else. He’s now one hundred percent justified in keeping me locked down with permanent bodyguards watching my every move.

So…it makes sense logically. Emotionally? Well, I just don’t know anymore.

It’s making me feel all sorts of jittery to know that I’m not infallible. I can be tricked. And I don’t knowallthe secrets. My perception is a lie.

“Izabella.” Nic’s rough voice pulls me from my inner turmoil and my head turns in his direction on instinct.

“Wine first, questions later.” I walk straight to the kitchen and rummage through my wine fridge, feeling over the braille stickers that Mrs. Dixon placed on them before finding a sweet fruity one that will quell heartache like chocolate does for other women. Kai surfaces behind me and grabs the bottle, the pop of the cork being removed following shortly after. The glug of the wine being poured into a glass sounds before the chilled surface is placed into my hands.

“Drink. Then talk.” I simply nod before taking a few gigantic chugs and making my way to the living room couch.

The telltale tingling in my legs from the wine helps ease the thoughts running rampant in my brain and I let out a sigh as the guys all join me. Ezra takes the spot to my right, the couch caving in with his massive size and forcing me to lean into him while balancing my glass upright so I don’t spill it. Kai takes my left, pressing right up against my side and snuggling in, effectively making this a Wicked sandwich. Nic takes the chair that I usually sit in, but I feel the burning intensity of his gaze as surely as if he were stroking me with his own hands.

“Talk.” He commands, his aura curious and impatient.

“Right.” I fidget under their attention, biding time with a few more gulps of wine. Probably noticing my obvious need for the liquid courage, Kai grabs my glass and refills it before handing it back to me. I thank him quietly and burrow further between him and Ezra with a sigh. “So…”

The next hour or two is spent updating them on the visions from today in exact detail, not leaving a damn thing out. They stay silent and contemplative the entire time, not interrupting or reacting in any way. Ezra and Kai’s hands stroke my thighs as I speak, offering me their support and helping me stay on track, even through the brutality of my mother’s attack. They know that it hurts, even if I really am done with her this time, and they just hold me through it all.

When I finally finish, they’re quiet for a moment before Nic finally speaks. “Why didn’t you tell the chief?”

“Well, I…I don’t really know. Call it a gut thing.” I shrug, scrunching my nose up as I try to find the words to justify my decision.

“A gut thing?” Nic speaks slowly, his tongue seemingly testing each word as they leave his mouth, and I don’t think he likes the taste.

“Look, I know it sounds weird, and I’ve probably got it all wrong. But I don’t think we should tell him until I’m sure.”

“Sure of what exactly?”

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