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Just a typical Saturday morning in the Bronx. Around here, every moment felt like a living hell.
“Are you a brave warrior or a scared princess?" Anton asked, smiling as he fished out Mojca’s necklace from beneath his shirt. He gently pulled it free, exposing a small stone ankh symbol on a worn leather chain—a
My mother ignored me, not sparing a single glance in my direction. She usually did that when she sensed she'd done something wrong.
I heard the giggle of children outside. At first, the sound was joyful to my ears, the warmth of their laughter cutting through my endless emptiness like no music ever could. But as I approached the living room window, I knew the group of kids gathered on the street wasn’t here for comfort—they were here for torment.
Would my mother feel anger? Would she feel rage? Or would she wish I were dead again? Was there even a difference among these three? Which emotion would make her hate me less? Distinguishing these feelings was incredibly difficult.
the psychiatrists diagnosed me with severe alexithymia.
That same day, my mother coldly confessed she wished I ha...
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Emanuel had always told me that someday he’d reunite with her. It was his heart-felt wish.
Now he would.
So, honoring his beliefs by reuniting him with his mother felt like the least I could do. After all, who was I to insist that my perception of the world was the only truth?
“We get to see what happens only if we don’t give up.”
That nagging sixth sense in her gut warned her that today wasn’t a day to be late. And her intuition was almost never wrong.
Leah needed me as much as I needed her. I’d offer most of the leads; she’d take care of them like a dark knight.
“Darkness is your friend in dark times like these.”
Right then, this act of finality, this intervention, felt like the most meaningful accomplishment of my life. Maybe my life had meaning, after all. Maybe the flawed model that left the factory years ago had intentionally been made broken, setting the stage for a dark yet hopeful path ahead.
A logical cover was of the utmost importance. Always.
My smile faltered as I observed the person beside him.
“And Mr. Jan Novak.”
“Humans have moral reasoning and the capacity for ethical decision-making. This sets us apart from most animals. While certain animals might kill beyond their survival needs, interpreting this as ‘fun’ could misrepresent their actions. Humans, with our advanced cognitive abilities and societal norms, generally view the killing of others for pleasure as a grave departure from ethical behavior, not as an innate trait.”
“What do you think we should do with humans who kill for fun? Get rid of them for the good of others?” he asked.
“I think that’s a question better suited for Mr. Michaels, not a concert pianist. After all, his halls are the ones filled with death. My own is filled with life and dreams.”
While Emelia talked, an unmistakable sense of being watched crept over me. It was just like when I was eight and Larsen had darted between cars, chasing after me. I turned my head slightly and immediately caught his gaze. Jan Novak.
he had fixed his intense blue eyes on me with the precision of a predator stalking its prey.
“So, although the ankh is most commonly associated with life or eternal life,” Emilia pressed on, “in this exceptional case, it signifies a mirror.
“To highlight the significance of self-reflection of one’s current self and beyond? Like a self-analysis or evaluation?”
There was something about that man . . . something deeply unsettling. It wasn’t like the darkness I’d come to recognize in the eyes of the monsters I hunted. Still, he had a strange quality that I couldn’t quite grasp.
As I descended the steps, my thoughts drifted back to Mr. Novak. His probing questions about the morality of killing, coupled with his intense scrutiny in the Egyptian exhibit, struck me as profoundly unusual. An enigma surrounded him, one that warranted closer examination.
Be careful. Why did I care so much?
was almost as if I feared he was the sole person capable of anchoring my humanity, preventing my descent into monstrosity.
When fate had pulled the rug out from under her, McCourt had been there to prevent her fall. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t finish what the person who’d pulled that rug from under her feet had started. The roles were clearly defined here: king and peasant. Cat kills mouse.
“Sir, I’ll do everything I can to find the Bay Reaper before something bad happens.” “Then do,” McCourt said, opening the door for her. “Because if this blows up, I know who I’m gonna land on to soften the fall, Rose.”
When the loudmouths faltered, I was still standing. In a world gone mad, I was the sanity, the glue holding shit together so everybody else could fuck up and be crazy.
What he found was a system in shambles. The laughable wages offered to community mental health counselors had precipitated a crisis. There was a severe shortage of qualified professionals and a revolving door of brave souls willing to tackle the county’s darkest problems in return for high student debt and a wage comparable to that of a grocery store clerk—without even the benefit of a store discount.
“These days, a soldier’s real enemy isn’t in the Middle East. It’s right here in his own fucking country.”
“So, you did look into him. What did you find?”
“Absolutely nothing.”
“And that’s very unsettling as I always find something, no matter the subject,” he continued. “There’s been only one other instance where I failed.” “And who was that?” I knew the answer but asked anyway. His gaze swept over me from head to toe, then returned to the crowd ahead as he turned his back to me. “You.”
The monster deep within me was locked away tonight. Richter had awakened my humanity. He had saved me from myself.
If I went down because I’d saved a life and not because I’d taken one, I was okay with that. I was, for once, at peace.
“Vanilla is the most popular flavor in the world, honey,” I said to Sarah. “Don’t ever fuck with me again.”
“Fuck. It’s . . . it’s Anna.” A chill colder than an Arctic storm seized me from within as I braced for her next words. “She was found dead in the woods.”
“Yes. When I wrote the report, I swore the coroner at Jenkins Hospital told me he suspected foul play. But then my chief called me in and told me it was a mistake on my end. He showed me the coroner’s report on the computer, which clearly stated suicide. So, I corrected the original document.
“Well, for some reason, they thought I had deemed the case a suicide—”
“No. I clearly stated in the paperwork that homicide was possible due to rope marks on her wrists. Also, the motive for the suicide didn’t add up to me. She’d never used drugs before, but her system was full of opiates.”
But as sad as it is, it doesn’t really change much. No other evidence points to homicide. I’m afraid my findings were not enough to keep the case going one way or the other.”
Fucking Special Agent Jack Rice, that piece of shit.
“This is what Rice used to report you to me, wasn’t it?” Rose nodded. “The one where you lied about that incident in your childhood. To be precise, the question of if you’ve ever killed before.”
“We get to see what happens only if we don’t give up,” her brother had always told her.
“Am I to assume this is mine now?” she asked. “It is. Rice won’t ever be a problem again. Nor will anybody else. Sometimes, files just get lost. It happens more than you’d think at three-letter agencies.”
Snitch. Her brother and mother had paid a heavy price for his silence. If silence was golden, maybe talking was diamonds?
