Page 80 of Lovely Violent Things

She smirks, graciously dismissing my glib tone. I’ve learned a lot from my time spent with Kallum, like how to answer questions without actually answering them.

“You need to get this treated and sutured properly,” she instructs me.

When I return to the library, I hand the jacket to Hernandez and am rewarded with a thermal of coffee.

“Bless you,” I tell him, uncapping the mug.

“It’s black.”

“It’s salvation right now.” I drink a few sips, my system welcoming the caffeine. Then, as I recap the thermal, I brace myself for another hard truth. “Why was the priority upgraded on Devyn?”

His brown eyes meet mine with a measure of caution. “One of the victims was recovered in downtown a little over an hour ago,” he says. “He was found wandering Main Street, naked, apparently in shock or under the influence of some substance. After he was taken in, a unit used hounds to track his scent to the mine.” He nods toward the bookcase, releasing a breath. “I’ve never seen anything like what’s down there. There’s a whole underground habitat or some shit.”

I mentally try to connect the pieces of last night with what Hernandez is saying now. I willingly let Devyn take me in the hopes I could somehow help the victims. I’m not sure that’s the outcome, but at least some might get that help.

“And more were found?” As he regards me curiously, I add, “One of the agents said five more were recovered. I’m assuming he was referring to the…victims.” I’m having a difficult time using that word to describe them, the disturbing image of the people I saw last night clashing with that terminology.

Hernandez confirms there have been six of the thirty-two missing locals found. All have been detained at a sequestered wing of the local hospital to undergo medical tests, treatment, and psychological evaluation.

“I should get you back to the hotel,” Hernandez says, turning to lead me through the warren of agents and forensic analysts. “I’ll give you some time to freshen up if needed before I have to bring you in.”

As I follow him out of the library, I ask the obvious question. “Where’s Kallum?”

He doesn’t look back. “Uh… With his lawyer,” he says, distracted by a text on his phone screen. “Trying to get released from holding.”

I detect an edge of strain in his tone, and my inner alarm sounds. Since the moment Agent Hernandez entered the library, I’ve sensed his anxiety. This is a very tense and anxious situation unfolding, yes—but there’s something he’s holding back.

“How are the locals responding to the news of Devyn?” I ask him. She’s one of them, a local. A friend, part of the system that protects them. Feelings of betrayal often present as denial at first, and then anger. Things around Hollow’s Row may become more volatile.

He shakes his head. “I’m not sure,” he replies as he meets another special agent in front of a black SUV and accepts the keys, confirming his vehicle was left at the entrance to the killing fields when the search began.

As Hernandez hasn’t mentioned the stolen carving knife sealed in an evidence bag being discovered in his SUV, I feel safe in trusting it’s still there. I’m torn between my feelings of relief and guilt over that fact. What I don’t feel is wrong for having stolen the weapon Devyn tried to use to frame Kallum. Yet even doing what we inherently believe is right still causes a cognitive dissonance that results in pain.

Kallum said villains have a motive, and that motive is a virtuous one. At least, in the mind of the villain, that reason feels virtuous. What I believe is that there’s a motive for all acts, whether good or bad. I believe Devyn has her own reason.

There is an answer there, one that delves to the heart of the matter.

I see her through the darkness, her eyes flashing with firelight, as our gazes connected in that last moment.

I came here to find the lost people of this town.

What I saw in Devyn’s eyes in that single second reaffirmed my own motive.

Devyn is the lost person I was meant to find.

As the SUV winds through the narrow streets of downtown, bringing us closer to town square, out of habit I search for my phone, only to mutter a curse.

Hernandez glances over at me. Then he reaches into his blazer and produces a device. “Here,” he says, handing me the phone.

Surprised and a little wary, I stare across the interior at him before I accept my phone. “Apparently, I’m a bad influence on you, agent. Subverting procedures?”

“A lot has happened in a short time,” he says, relinquishing a tense breath. “There’s been some changes with the higher ups, and until I know exactly who I’m reporting to, there’s no reason to confiscate your device. What’s said on that recording is private to you, and it’s your choice who knows.”

I clutch the phone, offering him an appreciative smile. Earlier, he said he’d sent a clip to the task force. Hernandez selectively sent a section of the conversation which kept the details of Alister’s attack on me private. “Thank you.”

He nods once, clearing his throat to diffuse the sentiment.

I shift in the passenger seat, and the scratchy material of the sweatshirt rubs over the stitches, snagging on the cotton to isolate my thoughts. I touch my arm, feeling the sloppy needlework of the stitches through the sleeve.

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