Page 84 of Lovely Violent Things

The Cambridge crime scene layers my vision like a thin veil—and I reach out and tear right through it to the memories flashing in luminous brilliance, dispelling the shroud around my mind.

White noise infects my eardrums as the beat of the drum intensifies, so overpowering I’m shaking, gasping for air to fill my burning organs.

The mental assault batters in merciless force, unrelenting.

And the dam breaks.

The grainy picture that has been plaguing me since the ritual with Kallum sharpens, coming into perfect focus. The bright edges of the initials engraved on a gold cufflink vibrate against my retinas, branding into the backs of my eyelids.

My eyes snap open.

And then with a deluge, every latent memory held at bay floods at once. I flatten my palm to the grass, drawing in breaths, a crazed laugh tumbling from my mouth around each inhale.

“Kallum…”

I push onto my feet, energy surging my veins like a pure hit of adrenaline injected straight into my heart.

My gaze sweeps the gathered gawkers formed beyond the caution tape, landing on Charles Crosby near the post clock first, then next, on the striking man sheathed in an all-black suit.

As I find Kallum amid the crowd, his eyes find me.

I hear his whispered words from the night we collided for the first time:Breathe.

“I’m breathing.”

I take off toward Agent Hernandez where he’s conversing with the agent in charge. I hold up the cufflink. “I think this belongs on that bastard’s suit,” I say, dropping the object in his upturned, gloved palm.

His features draw together in a mix of confusion and concern. “Hey, are you okay—?”

“Yes,” I say, bringing my hair over my shoulders the way Kallum likes it. “Never fucking better.”

Agent Rana steps in front of me. “Dr. St. James, I do need you to make a statement. The task force requires a complete account of the events of last night. I’m asking you to come with me right now.”

I meet her dark eyes, an eyebrow arched. “Am I in trouble?”

Her pretty features give nothing away. “Why would you think you’d be in trouble?”

I offer a disappointed grimace at her obvious tactic.

Her mouth purses in a thin line. “Not at this time,” she answers.

“Good. Then just as soon as I’m done being completely inappropriate with the expert consultant, I’ll come in to make a statement.” Seeing as I was hired by the locals at Devyn’s request, it’s doubtful the locals or the feds want me to remain on the case.

I then step around her, starting in the direction of Kallum, my steps sure for the first time in months.

I’ve always said: question everything.

Look beyond what you can see and touch, even reason. And somehow, I lost sight of that.

There’s always been another explanation for why the Harbinger killings stopped six months ago when Kallum was incarcerated. One that no one would think to question, the evidence hidden so perfectly right out in the open.

When the newest Harbinger crime scene was reported in Hollow’s Row, Kallum never suspected anyone other than the Overman suspect. That’s because heknewthe Harbinger killer couldn’t be here in this town.

Kallum knew this…because the Harbinger killer is dead.

As I weave a path through the gathered crowd outside the crime-scene perimeter, I pass media crews, and a live report from one of the journalists reaches my ears:

“At this time, it’s alleged that Special Agent Wren Alister has become the latest victim of the infamous Harbinger killer. The killer has advanced his technique. No longer satisfied with portraying a skull on his victims, the killer has devolved to a more gruesome depiction of the moth, removing the flesh to reveal the victim’s skull in the likeness of the death’s-head hawkmoth…”

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