Page 6 of Lovely Violent Things

Her awakening is just the beginning.

I turn away from the bland scenery of highway and give my attention to the federal agent driving us toward Briar Correctional Institute for the Criminally Insane. He turns the dial to increase the volume on the radio. Through my mounting hangover, I focus on the news update.

Misfortune has once again struck the quaint town of Hollow’s Row, where a mutilated body was discovered earlier this morning in a nearby marshland. The male victim, reported to be a town resident, was identified and confirmed to be one of thirty-three disappeared locals that mysteriously went missing over five years ago. A case which baffled local law enforcement and government officials.

This newest development has occurred amid an active investigation of dismembered body parts found in the same vicinity. Officials report the prime suspect to be the media’s infamous Harbinger killer, who stages victims in the likeness of the death’s-head hawkmoth before amputating the head. An iconic symbolism foreshadowing a future doomsday.

A cryptic letter was also found at the newest scene which detailed a challenge to the Hollow’s Row Mangler, addressed to the “Overman”. Authorities are now further investigating whether the deceased Landry was in fact the actual perpetrator of these heinous crimes.

At this time, there are still no leads on the whereabouts of the remaining missing thirty-two residents.

As the details of the report seep past the murky fog swathing my head, a red layer of fury covers my vision. I can feel Halen’s staccato heartbeat flare in my veins.

Leroy Landry—the horned man who attacked Halen and I at the killing fields ritual ground—was not the Overman. Which means, the actual suspect is still roaming the town. And now it seems the Harbinger killer has descended on Hollow’s Row to tear an apocalyptic-sized seam right down the center.

The connections sync faster than my dulled brain can process.

Halen’s in danger.

“Fucking psychos.” The agent behind the steering wheel mutters to himself as he lowers the volume on the SUV stereo. He scans radio stations until he settles on a poppy 80s song.

The bass-filled music grates abrasively against my senses, scraping my already worn patience thin. The dull ache at my temples increases as my mind races.

“Why don’t you call your superior to get an update on the psychos?” I tell him, jaw tensed around each word.

Flicking his gaze to the rearview mirror, Special Agent Hernandez regards me like I’m one of said psychos and sputters an annoyed breath. “Not any of your business anymore, is it?”

As he leisurely refocuses on the drive to the institute, I fist my bandaged hands in an attempt to curb the impulse to reach over the seat back and strangle him with my handcuffs.

A bad idea, for one: wrecking the vehicle would not get me back to Halen any quicker.

And two: the only person in a position to validate my return to the case happens to reside at Briar.

Impulse control. I have a dire issue there. But the dark fury simmering beneath my skin is all but cooking me alive.

I imagine Halen listening to the same report while she flees the town and her fears of us. My pretty little liar led me to believe she was resuming her place on the task force, when really, she’d been dismissed from her position within her company. I got that much out of the agent aboard the flight.

The lingering burn of her spicy curry imbues an ache in my chest. Even at this distance apart, if I block out everything but her, I can feel the churning vortex of her emotions, the distress tearing at her mind.

Her obsession with the Harbinger killer will find a way to return her to that town. I have no doubt she’s already aware of the newest murder, and that she’s also already angling to prove I did it.

I can’t help the smile that steals across my face. This gives me a thrilling satisfaction, knowing she can’t rid me from her thoughts so easily.

She called me a sociopath, a leech who fed off her emotions. I don’t deny her claim. I’ve burrowed in deep. I may be the bloodsucking parasite greedy to glut myself on her—but there is now something far more sinister out there vying to feed off her.

Dividing us was the wrong choice.

“We’re here,” Hernandez announces, as if I’m a five-year-old who needs mollifying.

“My anticipation is killer.”

His faded-brown eyes find mine in the mirror. “That hot little criminologist you worked with…the one you kissed…” he says, and suddenly he has my full fucking attention.

“Dr. St. James,” I say, helping him along. Jaw tensed, I throttle the urge to further correct him in the most furious reprimand.

Since my last moments with her, my fuse has been cut to the wick.

“Right.” He pulls alongside the curb beneath the covered drop-off area of the facility. “Did she really strip herself naked and let you put your bloody hands all over her?”

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