Page 7 of Lovely Violent Things

The vision of Halen adorned in bones and my blood stirs a visceral heat beneath my skin.

Hernandez is dangerously close to losing his tongue.

The FBI rumor mill is likely buzzing. An unwanted flash of Agent Alister makes it past the dulled haze. He has an unhealthy interest in Halen, and I can only speculate as to what he’s said to her behind closed doors. I’m not sure my threat to him was made clear enough.

I lock eyes with the agent in the rearview mirror, letting my facial features harden in their natural state. He visibly recoils. “What’s your point?” I demand.

“She’s back on the case,” he says. “Thought you might like to know.” He unbuckles his seatbelt and pulls the handle to open the door.

A roar fills my ears, and I momentarily forget I’m handcuffed as I move to prevent him from leaving the car. The chain linked to my cuffed ankles snaps taut, holding me back. The agent notices.

“How do you know for sure Dr. St. James is working the case?” I demand.

He slides his holstered gun forward on his chest, reminding me that he’s armed. “Agent Alister,” he says, confirming my suspicions. “The locals hired her on as a consultant to the task force.”

A twisted smirk pulls at the corner of my mouth. I know exactly what local made that happen. I also know that Halen owes her a number of favors, so there was little chance Halen would turn down a request from Devyn Childs to stay on as a consultant.

“Lead the way,” I tell the agent.

Once he has me escorted to processing, I go through the tedious protocol to be readmitted into the hospital.

“Don’t go far,” I tell Agent Hernandez as he removes my shackles.

He huffs a humorous breath, discounting that I will be right back in his SUV and on my way to Halen shortly.

I’m only given a moment of freedom before a hospital psych tech has my ankles and wrists cuffed once again. Ironically, I’ve never laid a hand on anyone in this facility, but the stench of fear permeates the air just the same.

The anticipation for the strike is always more fear-inducing than the strike itself.

I’m led to the office of Dr. Torres, and proof of that fearful suspense is etched into the doctor’s worn features. Seated behind his cluttered desk, Dr. Torres regards me with equal parts disdain and trepidation.

His office is in worse condition than before I left. “I love what you’ve done here,” I say, flicking my gaze to a moldy sandwich displayed on his bookcase. Fittingly, positioned right between Freud and Jung. I cock an eyebrow. “An offering to your gods?”

“Don’t get comfortable, Professor Locke,” Torres says, and I’m pleased he still has the mental capacity to address me professionally. “This session is just a pitstop before you’re transferred to California.”

I gift him my brilliant, devilish smile. “Then I’d say an induction evaluation really isn’t necessary.”

He straightens his askew tie. “This is your departure evaluation.” He’s way too excited to correct me as he flips open a manila folder. “Have a seat.”

The psych tech removes the taupe rug in front of the leather chair to reveal a manacle bolted into the tiled floor. After I’m seated, he proceeds to latch the chain between my ankles to the locking apparatus.

I test the restraint.

“The case study is almost complete,” Dr. Torres announces. He’s nearly quivering with eagerness. “I just need to evaluate how the case affected your mental state, then you’ll be someone else’s problem.”

See, in the end, the drive for our passions always outweighs our fear and even our commonsense. Dr. Torres has taken great strides toward his accomplishments. He believes my mind is the gateway to his discovery and, ultimately, his acclaim.

Had I been introduced to Dr. Torres before I found my muse, I would have despised him with relentless envy for the simple fact he is so driven by his passion. As we sit here now, I have to actively try not to pity him.

My restraints are checked and doublechecked before Dr. Torres instructs the tech to leave the office. I let my gaze settle on the very driven man behind his messy desk.

Buzzing with anticipation, Torres reaches a trembling hand toward a fountain pen. “Let’s begin with Dr. Verlice’s field report.”

The mention of Stoll triggers an impatient strum across my nerves, and I decide Torres and I do not have time for one last tango.

By shackling me, the doctor is trying to protect himself. But this man knows it’s what cannot be physically bound that is the most dangerous threat.

“Dr. Verlice supplied me with his report—” he glances over the frames of his glasses “—which details your rather insubordinate behavior. Alcohol. Parties. Direct violation of your parameters.”

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