Chapter 6: Lovely Bad Things: Chapter 5

“Two visits in as many days. I’m honored, Dr. St. James.”

Halen sits in the same seat she sat in yesterday at the visitation table. Only today, she seems a little less on edge. Her hair is down. The rich layers drape her shoulders and stop right below her natural, pear-shaped breasts.

I have the sudden, destructive urge to sweep the white strand behind her ear, or wrap it around my fist. I curl my fingers toward my palm on the table to curb the impulse.

She’s freshly showered, and I inhale the scent of generic shampoo and soap. She packed in a rush to get here; she didn’t bring along her own brand of cleansers and fragrance.

Without a retort, she removes documents from her satchel and lines the forms in a row on the tabletop between us. She’s all serious business.

“This is the offer, Kallum,” she states. “You can’t barter or hold out for a better deal. This is time sensitive. This, or nothing at all.”

I don’t look at the documents. I hold her silvery gaze. The overcast sky threatens bad weather, and her irises reflect the stormy atmosphere outside the windows, making her look more like an ethereal fairy creature.

“Before you give me your pitch, I have a request.”

She braces herself with a fortifying intake of air. “Go ahead.”

“The white forelock…?” I use my finger to motion around the side of my face in mirror of hers.

“Poliosis,” she answers straightforward. “The harmless, genetic kind. My mother also had it.” Her rough edges sharpen around the mention of her mother, and her defensive walls erect higher as she avoids my eyes.

“Seems we have a commonality,” I say. “My heterochromia is also a rare pigment condition passed through the genes.” I blink and flash her a smile with my eyes.

“No underlying conditions?” she probes.

She’s fishing for more than the reason behind my striking eyes in my gene pool. “Not unless you count smoldering genius….no.”

With a hard nod, she glances down at the documents. “For the record, we’re nothing alike, Kallum. Now, let’s go over the specifics—”

“Just tell me the offer.” She’s using my first name, one of my terms. From the tightness rimming her pouty lips, she’s not thrilled with the concession.

But she is desperate.

“There is no judge in the state of Boston who is going to grant you a full release,” she says. Her features soften as she delivers the practiced half of her speech. “But, you will have a measure of freedom while you’re participating on the case. You’ll be required to wear an ankle monitor, and assigned a psychiatrist to supervise you. Then, when the case is closed, provided your help is deemed valuable, you’ll be relocated out of Briar to a less restrictive facility.”

I link my hands together on the table, interlacing my fingers. I hold her unwavering stare for a beat, then glance down at the scripted ink on my forearm. One line in particular, a quote from Plato: There will be no end to the troubles of state, or of humanity itself, till philosophers become kings.

“And what do I get from you out of the deal?”

Her dark eyebrows draw together. Her emotions are so transparent, it fills my head with a buzz, like I’m drugged. “I don’t understand,” she says.

“What are you offering me? Not the state, the judge, or the FBI. You.”

She doesn’t respond immediately. The sounds of the visitation room become louder. The scrape of chairs against the tile floor and conversations press in around us. As she considers her answer, I see the same obstinate certainty she wore in the courtroom drape her like a cloak.

“I know what you’ve done to Dr. Torres,” she says.

I crane an eyebrow. “Is that so. And what, little Halen, have I done?”

“I saw the burns,” she says, dropping her voice low. “You tortured him.”

Elbow braced on the table, I cover my mouth with my hand. “That is quite the absurd theory coming from you.”

She pushes in closer, all pretense lost from her features. “Are you saying you aren’t the cause of those burns? That you didn’t torture Dr. Torres?”

“He tortured himself,” I say with conviction. “And stop trying to psychoanalyze me. I can’t be the scapegoat for everyone. At some point, Halen, the niggling itches become an inferno that must be snuffed out.”

She shakes her head, her eyes searing where her gaze touches. “You once asked me if I was scared of you.”

My breath stalls, every sinew in my body corded tight. I’m way too anxious to hear where she’s taking this.

“I am frightened of you, Kallum,” she admits, her voice a sensual, breathy cadence that slinks beneath my skin. “If that’s what you’re capable of doing to someone you find a mere irritation…” She trails off, her teeth catch the corner of her lip. “Well, I already know what you do to someone you feel deserves revenge.”

My whole body is fire. If she’s not careful, I might drag her into the blaze. Her confession is a wicked tease, daring me to show her real fear, to make her scream. If little Halen glimpsed the images filling my head right now, she’d shred that paperwork and flee this building.

But for her—to get what I need—I have to behave like a good dog. No biting. No scratching. No humping. And definitely no marking my territory.

I expel a breath, releasing the wound tension from my muscles. “Why are you saying this to me?”

The vulnerability in her features is raw and aching, and if we were alone, I’d lap it up while making her mascara streak her pretty cheeks.

“Because,” she says, voice hitching. “I’m the focal point of your obsession.”

A chuckle escapes. “You have quite the obsession brewing yourself.” I lick my lips, tasting her fear, the most fragrant and intoxicating flower. “Don’t worry. I’m don’t hold a grudge against you. You’re safe from me.”

She doesn’t believe me. Her eyes shimmer with her cresting trepidation, and the tremble of her lips damn near makes me come undone…before she finally reins in her emotions. I’m becoming exhausted from holding myself back, my knuckles white as I grip the table.

“What is it that you want from me?” she asks. “What do I have to give you to make you accept this deal, Kallum?”

Her question flays the last layer of my restraint. I drive my hand through my hair, turning away from the table. Just give me a goddamn pen.

A heavy beat of silence stretches, then she says, “If it means some good comes out of this deal, then…within reason, I’ll give you whatever you want.”

A vicious spark ignites my blood. The current races to my heart, and anticipation licks my spine with a forked tongue. I lower my hand to the table. The craving to feel her heartbeat thrums against my veins.

I don’t suppress my crooked smile, and I like the way that makes her shift in her seat. “What would your good do if evil didn’t exist?” I say to her. Bulgakov’s words are so aptly appropriate for this moment, I could’ve written them myself.

She touches her forearm with purpose, and I’m curious to scratch away all those layers to find out what lies beneath.

“No games, Kallum,” she says. “I will comply within reason, but that means your help must be deemed valuable.”

“And what would be within reason? A hamburger? A phone call to a friend? A midnight walk on the beach?” I shrug playfully, rather enjoying all of our games. “Maybe all I want is you worrying about what I have in mind so I can watch you squirm.”

“You’re sick,” she says, letting her guard slip.

“Perhaps, but you’re the one who needs my sickness, sweetness.”

She reaches into her bag and produces a pen, but holds it just out of reach. “We have a contingent deal, then?”

I nod once.

She offers me the pen. “Sign your name.”

As I accept the pen, I rest my index finger alongside hers. A charged current arcs between us before she pulls away. The slightest touch stirs a primal yearning within me to snatch her hair and shove her down against the table.

Jaw clenched, I grip the pen, damn near cracking the plastic. I have to work on keeping these urges in check.

Patience has never been a virtue I deem valuable. I’m something of a hedonist, I admit. And the dark energy pulsing between Halen and I wants to drive me mad, wants to make me tangle her up in my web and bleed her until I’m gorged.

Pen poised over the page, I glance up at her. “I wonder which one of us is the devil, and which one is selling our soul?”

She shakes the loose waves of hair from her face. “You first have to have a soul to sell.”

Before this is over, my little Halen will look into the eyes of her devil and know fear.

With a satisfied smile, I sign my name to the forms. As I set the pen in front of her, I say, “When I solve the case, I expect the terms to be renegotiated.”

She releases an amused breath. “And why in the hell that spawned you do you think that would ever happen?”

I cock my head, letting my gaze lower to the diamond sitting in the hollow of her throat, before I find the alluring silver of her eyes once again. “Because this matter is far too urgent for simply locating bodies and naming a suspect. I’ll be the savior of thirty-three lives, Halen. I’ll be a hero. And a hero can ask for any-fucking-thing he wants.”

She doesn’t need to say a word. Her sobered features confirm the veracity of my statement.

Instead, she makes a production of packing away the forms before she stands over me, satchel in hand. “Pack lightly, Kallum. Your ego will need the room.”

My gaze admiringly lingers on her backside as she leaves the visitation room.

My muse confessed her fear, opened herself wide and allowed me to wade around in her depths.

Now the yearning to delve deeper is hungrier than ever.