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“Who are you?”

“Oh, my sweet kitty cat. I can’t believe you have to ask me that.”

I am filled with horror. This is my nightmare come alive. Every night terror, every bad dream, every sense of fear, of something horrifying scuttling along the baseboards, about to rise up and devour me, is here. Now. In this room. This is no longer a convoluted fantasy. This is real.

“Ian?”

The lights go on, and I am blinded. “Hello, sweetheart. Long time no see.”

It takes me a moment to adjust. I am in a charcoal room. Spiky triangles stick out from the walls, ceiling, and floor like hungry maws. It’s like being inside a shark’s jaws, looking out into the endless sea. My head spins.

“What is this place?”

“This? Dad’s anechoic chamber. He likes to come in here and meditate without any sort of sound. Or sensation. Did you know when the door is closed this room registers minus nine-point-four decibels? It is beyond pure silence. It is a void. Drives you a little mad if you’re not careful.”

“Why am I here? Why areyouhere?”

“You came to see me. I figured I’d repay the favor.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Brockville. The writers’ retreat? Didn’t think I hit you hard enough to remove your memories, darling.”

“Don’t call me that,” I snarl.

I told you not to do it. Do you ever listen to me? No.

I moan, realizing the awful truth. The only voice I’ve not been able to exorcise is Ian’s. It’s always been Ian’s. Since I met him in that dark forest and he decided I was going to be his, that he would heal me, cure me, love me—and then betrayed me. He’s been in my head, mocking me, for years.

Yes, I wanted in to the Brockville Writers’ Retreat because I want to be a writer. But the voice knows there was a deeper reason. I needed to be near where we met. I needed to understand why he made me into the creature I am. I needed to understand why I’d listened to him, all those years ago. Why I was so weak. To prove to myself it wasn’t just a bad dream. And now, I am going to find out.

I searched for him for so long.

I finally found him. My plan, though, has backfired.

He has found me.

He stands, moving toward me, the smile affixed to his face. The face of a monster.

Part Three

He who fights with monsters should look to it that he himself does not become a monster. And if you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss also gazes into you.

—Friedrich Nietzsche

Chapter Forty-One

Theo

Nashville, Tennessee

One Week Later

Theodore Donovan steers his rental through the entrance of the Donelson Corporate Centre. It doesn’t look like much. The Metro Nashville Police brass have quarters here while their new building is being designed and built, and Theo is meeting with the head of the specialized investigative support group, who, as it happens, worked the Susannah Handon murder scene twenty-eight years ago. He counts himself lucky to have found an active employee who was a part of the case. Cops usually burn out after their twenty years on the job. Burn out or get moved up. This guy is the latter.

Theo’s gut is twisted with knots. Halley’s been on the run for a week now. According to the sheriff in Brockton, she is now the primary suspect in the murder of a woman in Brockville, Tammy Boone, as well as responsible for the near death of the sheriff’s brother, with whom she’d been holed up. The sheriff made it clear something was going on between them, and the mere thought makes Theo’s blood pressure spike. The primal fury at the idea of his wife with another man is hard to tampdown. But it’s his fault, too. He’s barely touched her in months. Too busy. Too angry. Too much pressure. She’s always been a physical creature. It’s his own damn fault she went looking for comfort elsewhere.

Still, he didn’t realize she was that far out of the marriage already. Of course, he hasn’t wanted to face that things have been over between them for a while now. Guess she needed to make a clean break of it.