Darkly, Madly Duet

by Trisha Wolfe

I’m here against my lawyer’s advice in order to study the crowd. A copycat killer isn’t unlike any other serial killer—he feeds off his celebrity, requiring recognition of his acts. He would insert himself close to the investigation, but not close enough to get caught.

“You have no jurisdiction here, detective. My lawyer and I agree that your obsessive interest in me is now bordering on harassment.” Every chance I get, I bring my lawyer up to Foster. It makes him flinch, being reminded of the way Allen Young belittled him on the witness stand during Grayson’s trial.

Grayson was my fresh taste. He’s my interruption. I was starving for his promise of genius, and that genius shattered my world to bring me a sister I never knew existed before now.

London Noble. Lydia Prescott.

Apparently, she’s come to be known as Lydia Prescott.

London plays her part well in front of an audience. Maybe too well. She’s actively seeking information about her former life, and helping officials comb the state for the madman who abducted and tortured her. All she has to do is drive an hour toward the coast.

Wishing London was here for this next part. No one can break a mind the way she can. I know, because I’ve seen her process. Studied her technique on the tapes. Looking for ways to combine our methods.

Well, if my lovely lilac is falling victim to her poisonous delusions again, there’s really only one answer: pluck off the offending petals. Time to remind Dr. London Noble of who she is.

Lydia Prescott doesn’t belong here. Not the way London Noble does.

Lydia is forming this familiarity—this bond—with a sister she never knew. Lydia could love Mia. Lydia would’ve been capable of the deepest love.

But then, there are times like now, where I wonder if Nelson questions the results—wondering if my slip of the tongue in saying Grayson’s name with such familiarity reveals a shared intimacy with my patient. Not coerced in the least.

I suppose these are questions for a psychologist. I just happen to know one. Intimately.

Hope that Grayson senses my need… Or I could be patient. Trust that Grayson and I are still working in tandem. But are we?

I’m addicted to Grayson, and the way he makes me feel. And yet I fear him just as powerfully.

We’re a duet—we belong together. One cannot exist without the other. I can accept this, but I want to accept it with my eyes wide open.

The only safe and secure place for me to keep my research on Grayson is my practice. These walls are protected under patient-doctor confidentiality. In turn, the FBI may be able to trace and access my data, but they can’t use it. Not against me, or Grayson.

Grayson was not kidnapped by his abductors. Someone sold him to them. The only likely suspect would be his own mother.

He murdered his blood relatives to escape a hell that no child should suffer. And yet, he didn’t return to his mother once he was free. He fled Ireland, leaving her alive. She didn’t undergo his vengeance.

Grayson set me free, and liberated me of my past at the same time. I’m unsure if he believes I’m able to do the same for him…or whether or not he’s decided I already have.

Grayson having something over me places him in a position of power—and I’m not reluctant to admit I’m struggling with the trust part of our relationship. Lydia would never belong in a relationship such as this.

“It is if one enjoys puzzles.” I brush my lips across hers, the softest tease. “You’re my favorite puzzle, London.”

“I see you,” I whisper against her lips. “I could feel your pain from fucking miles away. I know what you need.” I capture her mouth, crushing our lips together. I drown out the world and its threats—the fear, the pain—with one kiss. She’s the only thing that makes the compulsions quiet. A still reed in my storm. London kisses me back with a hard demand that bruises my mouth. Pleasure courses my system, and I crave more. There’s no give; only take. We’re feeding off each other.

“He’s a man obsessed,” I say. “I can’t be jealous. I empathize… No, that’s wrong. I pity him.”

“You like pinning me to desks,” I say, a taunt in my voice.

“I love pinning you. Period.”

“I know you can.” He takes the phone from me and sets it aside on the desk. “I’m not worried about your actions. I’m worried about what I’ll do.”

Maybe I’m biased, but from a personal standpoint, I’ve discovered that the very people put in charge to honor the law and protect us are the ones we should fear the most.

“The things he said…that he asked me…” He shakes his head and winces. “It was like he’s looking for something in particular. And when he didn’t find it, he just…left.”

Love is pain. Real love—the one not spewed in poetry—is agony. It tears at your soul, strips you bare, drives you mad and demands the veracity of our existence.

Love is madness.

She’s my home. And she’s my sickness.

That’s important. That’s key. Every lock has a key.

“I know this isn’t a social visit,” she says, lowering her voice. “I’ve been following the news. So tell me why you’re really here, and how I can help.”

“Are you meeting him there?”

“No,” I say honestly. I know she’s referring to Grayson. He was the center of my last session with her. “My patient is not in Ireland, but I am going there for him. It’s the only way I’ll get the answers I need.”

“I’ve missed you, London, but not the brain cramps that come with having you as a friend.”

Trusting that Grayson and I—that our design—is merely an inevitability and not ill-fated. My swinging pendulum might be metaphoric to his literal design—but both were set in motion long ago.

Floodwaters rush, answers coming at me too fast. The sinking feeling I always sensed near Grayson solved with a blistering clarity. This is what he’s kept hidden.

Grayson should’ve had someone who cared to look out for him.”

“Now that I know what he fears,” I whisper to her, “I’m going to free him.”

You’re the key, Grayson told me. I thought it was a metaphor about freeing him…but that’s not what he’s searching for. He doesn’t want to free something—he wants to lock it away. And who better to choose for that purpose than a psychologist that has mastered the art of forgetting.

“You can’t copy everything,” I say. “London likes her villains authentic.”

I smile conspiratorially at Foster, and he backs up a step. I sense the disturbed mood rioting through him. He’s bumbled his way to this point, a tagalong, not even sure how he got here.

“Detective Foster would’ve been more original. Secretly, I was rooting for it to be him. You’re an insult to Grayson’s methods.”

With Grayson locked away, the killings have to end. And Nelson can’t accept that.

“You’ll always be in his shadow,” I wheeze out, but he hears me.

Dr. London Noble has the status and authority to overturn any official. I believed this before; I have to believe it now.

Agent Nelson isn’t the only one with the law on his side. You’re his muse.

From the moment I placed my hand in Grayson’s on that roof, everything has been my choice. I wondered when it was that the dynamic between us was established…and now I know. It was then. Right then. Amid our Folie à deux—our madness shared by two—I am the dominant. It has always been me.

I compared every detail and possible outcome. And I know that there’s no way out. Not without London.