To crack the awkward shell we seem to be encased in, I mutter clumsily, “Yeah, me either. She never told me you were staying behind. In fact, no one mentioned it. Did you volunteer?”
“Wow, that woman doesn’t check her messages. If I had feelings they’d be bloody hurt.” He turns, scowling, and it’s in that moment something feels off.
I laugh, but it’s weird, uncomfortable. He pauses, no longer smiling. His face slowly drops. “You all right, Jane?”
I nod slowly, but my vision starts to fill with a thousand images, each one slowly progressing into something worse. His face, his laugh, his smile, his snarl. The way his teeth gnash when he speaks with a sneer. I swallow hard.
“What is wrong, Princess?” he asks, lifting a hand and dragging it down my cheek. Everything inside of me screams but I sit frozen; a small piece of me is still the girl he tormented. I feel everything she felt, every moment of horror and agony.
It takes approximately seven seconds for me to completely realize he is Mr. X. Mr. X is him. Every piece of the puzzle slips into place.
“How?” The word falls from my lips, my eyes flood with tears, and my brain points out all of the clues that are now so obvious. “I know you tricked Dash into changing the recording when you recognized who Ashley Potter was. You must have panicked when you realized she was alive. That she had survived the river. This is why you got Dash to confuse me by introducing you as the bad guy so you could make a cover for yourself. I see now how you knew we were coming and killed all those girls, and how you used all of your skills to avoid detection. I guess I only have to ask you one thing, Rory. How could you? Being who we are, and seeing what we see, how could you?” I press a button on my phone, something he doesn’t see me do as I pick it up from the console.
“How could I? How could I not? Each one of them was mine.” His eyes lose the Irish charm and roguish flair. Instead, the dark-blue seems to blacken as he tilts his head forward, casting a shadow over his eyes. His smile becomes menacing as evil—the pure evil in his heart—takes over. His eyebrows even arch differently. He is sick, which I can see. “You can’t be surprised, Jane. Not after everything. You were attracted to me in there, in Ashley’s mind. You wanted me. You moaned and writhed while you were in there like I have never seen you do. Angie, that twat, was jealous that you got to have me as your Dr. Russo, Derek the sex machine. You’re the only mind runner I’ve ever seen who uses sex in someone’s head.” He twirls a strand of my hair that’s escaped my ponytail. “You want a dark and scary man to hate-fuck, to conquer you.” His eyes light up. “You like it in there, don’t you? You’ve gotten addicted to riding their minds and feeling their pain. In there you’re a real girl. Having family and friends and a life that’s real, beyond this bullshit lot you’ve been handed. That wanker Dash never deserved you. He sees the light, but I see you, Princess, I see you for who you are. I know you want love in all the wrong places.”
He grips the side of my face, pulling me into him. His lips bubble over with spit, but before he can attempt to kiss me the door is opened and he’s thrown from the car. “What in the hell are you doing?” Dash grabs him but shouts at me. The conversation with Angie over his drooling problem mixes with the spit-filled kisses he gave Ashley. The whole world feels like it crumbles, but I manage to point as my hand shakes and my eyes dart. “It’s—it’s him.”
Dash sees the look on my face and spins, but he’s no match for Rory. Dash swings, and Rory punches him twice, knocking him to the ground, and breaks into a sprint.
I get out, running after him, before I’ve even given it much thought. I point at the police in the car across from us. “Get them to help us!”
Dash scrambles across the road for the cop car as I kick my legs into high gear.
I’m not like Rory. I’m not crazy. He runs through the traffic once we get onto Queen Anne Avenue from the side street we were on. He slides over the hoods of moving cars and dashes into traffic like a madman, almost as if he’s toying with me. He wants me to come and get him. I stop running, sending a quick video message and calling a number much more powerful than 911.
“It’s Agent Spears, 549621, go for code.”
The phone makes a dial tone just before a man picks up—not just any man, the vice president of the country. “Agent Spears?” he asks softly.
“Mr. Vice President, this is Agent Jane Spears. My partner, Rory Guthrie, is the perp on the Granger Mountain homicides. I don’t know how, but he has just gone rogue on me, admitting to it all. I have sent the recording I made as he spoke in the car.”