Page 9 of Lovely Violent Things

I have simply never corrected him.

With marked conflict, Torres grasps the pen. The gray hair at his temples is damp with sweat. “You realize all I have to do is make one phone call when you walk out of this room.” He chuckles.

Then I have to make sure that can’t happen.

Inhaling a deep breath, I decide it’s time for Dr. Torres to get the help he so desperately needs.

“Place the FBI document on the desk,” I order.

He makes one last weak attempt to resist the command, the hand not clutching the pen gripped to the edge of the desk, before his defenses shatter. I watch him retrieve the document from the printer tray with anticipation.

“She’ll figure it out,” he warns, a devious glint breaking through the dullness clouding his eyes. “She’s smart. She’ll figure out what you did.”

Fury shatters the last of my restraint. “Put your left hand on the desk.”

He makes a pathetic show of fighting each movement. For all I know, he first majored in the dramatic arts before switching to psychology. His muscles spasm as he flattens his palm to the desk surface. His chest heaves, his glasses slip down the bridge of his sweaty nose.

I hold his gaze, staring into his glazed eyes with the blue-and-green flames of mine. Dr. Torres should thank me in the end. I’m almost tempted to let him continue to destroy his own mind. But since I can’t have him further interfering…

“Drive the pen into your hand.”

“Oh god no…” Dr. Torres impales the pointed nib of the fountain pen into the back of his hand. Blood wells around the gold tip before a thin rivulet trails to the desk.

“Now,” I say, satisfaction rippling beneath my skin, “sign your fucking name.”

Shaking, he pulls the pen free and scribbles his name on the document, inking his authority with his blood.

By the time the psych tech enters to intervene, the document has been faxed to the Hollow’s Row Police Department at the attention of Special Agent Alister.

“You demon—” Torres shouts, as the tech tries to restrain him. “You’re a fuckingdemon. Hell is all around us.” He grabs the collar of the tech’s white shirt. “Can’t you feel the flames?”

With as much darkness as this man has seen, I’d think he’d conjure a less cliché delusion.

Before I’m escorted out of the doctor’s office by Agent Hernandez, I turn back briefly to send Torres a conspiratorial wink.

He’ll be fine. He might even make a full recovery. Then, he’ll go on to write a compelling memoir of how he battled his mental demons and came out the conquering victor.

He should issue me a royalty check from the proceeds.

After Hernandez has confirmed the transfer with the task force, he places me in the backseat of the black SUV once again. I look through the window and give the Briar institute one last, nostalgic glance.

I won’t be returning.

Poppy 80s music rattles from the speakers to fill the interior as I recline against the leather seat, wondering what little Halen is doing right now.

I’m coming, sweetness.

3

HUNTING GROUNDS

HALEN

There’s a story of a monster that feeds off pain. Its fangs sink into the soul and siphon suffering like a vampire sucks blood. Misery slithers in its veins, sorrow is the sinew beneath its flesh. It’s a hollow vessel that leeches off agony the same way a creature of the dead feasts on sustaining lifeforce.

In the Greek mythos, poems were ascribed to a daemon like this, these personified spirits who embodied human pain and despair. They called them the Algea, the incarnations of our sins, and our mourning.

The human condition is such that we must give our overpowering emotions a name, even fashion them into monsters. So we can comprehend the depth of our heartache, understand our profound grief. So we can make sense of meaningless tragedies, and the pain we ourselves inflict. Then the resulting guilt.

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