Текст книги "Depraved devotion"

Автор книги: Morgan Bridges

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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

CHAPTER 8

GENEVA

I push through the heavy door, and the air in the hallway rushes past me but fails to erase the tension knotting my stomach.

Ghost’s voice is still in my mind, prowling the corners of my consciousness. His insidious whispers contain doubts, fears, and unsettling truths I’m not ready to confront.

I barely make it a few steps when Detective Harris is there, waiting for me, his eyes fixed on mine and a frown tugging at his mouth. His usual calm, composed demeanor is tinged with grave concern. He watched everything that transpired in that room, and the weight of his scrutiny is almost too much to bear.

“Are you all right?” His voice is soft and carefully measured.

I open my mouth to respond, but the words stick in my throat, tangled up in the emotions I’m trying so hard to ignore. I force myself to take a breath, to steady the quiver in my voice. “I got what we needed. Anna Lee’s alive.”

The detective slowly nods, his gaze searching and assessing. “I’ve already called it in. If the information is real, they’ll find her. I hope she’s okay.” There’s a weight to his words, a subtle emphasis that tells me he’s not just talking about the girl. “It was rough in there.”

Everyone saw the way Ghost toyed with me, the way he pushed and prodded until he found the cracks in my armor. Shame warms my cheeks, and I avert my gaze. It takes me a moment, but once I regain my composure, I look at the detective.

“It’s nothing I can’t handle.” I shrug, trying to dismiss Allen’s concern. “Ghost really knows how to manipulate someone, I’ll give him that. In the end it doesn’t matter because saving Anna Lee is the goal.”

The detective’s frown deepens. He steps closer, his tone gentle. “Ghost made things personal to throw you off your game. And he knew things about you that he shouldn’t. He’s more dangerous than I originally thought.”

His words hit harder than I expect, and for a moment, I’m not sure how to respond. I want to tell Allen that I’m fine, that I’m still in control. But even as I try to form the words, I know they’re not true. Not entirely.

“You did good in there,” he continues. “Better than most people would have. Don’t let him get to you. He’s just another criminal wanting attention, but you never have to see him again.”

I nod, though the relief I expect doesn’t come. Instead, there’s just a hollow, gnawing emptiness, a sense that something is slipping away from me, something vital. I want to ignore it, to focus on the mission, but the weight of Ghost’s words lingers like a shadow, dark and inescapable.

“I’ll be fine.” The words feel like a lie. “Getting back to work is what I need right now.”

“You don’t have to pretend you’re okay. There’s no shame in needing some time. Are you sure you don’t want to take the rest of the day?”

I shake my head. “Being alone with my thoughts is the worst thing I can imagine.”

The detective holds my gaze for a long moment, his expression unreadable, as if he’s considering whether to push further. But then he nods. “All right. Let’s check in on the team and see where they’re at.”

We step outside, the fresh air biting against my cheeks, offering a brief reprieve from the oppressive atmosphere of the prison. Allen looks at me again.

“I know I already said it, but you really did good in there. I wouldn’t have lasted long before losing my shit.”

The cemetery is quiet.

It’s the kind of silence that seeps into your blood and flows through your veins, until you’re either overcome with grief or peace. I’ve had a lot of experience with the former and none of the latter.

The traffic after work was abysmal as always, but there’s no relief in arriving at my destination. I wave off the driver, who’s quick to leave, his tires squealing against the cracked pavement as he takes off. The neighborhoods surrounding the grave site are crumbling with broken windows and graffiti has been scrawled across the walls in angry bursts of color.

The cemetery bears the same weight of neglect. The headstones are simple, most of them weathered and worn, some of them barely legible. Weeds grow unchecked between slabs of granite, and the grass is overgrown, needing to be mowed.

This area, on the outskirts of the city, has been forgotten by anyone with the means to make a difference. It’s not a thing of beauty, but of necessity, a final resting place for those who had nowhere else to go. For all of its flaws, there’s a stark reality to it that I haven’t found in the polished parts of the city.

I walk down one of the narrow paths, careful not to trip on the uneven ground. Once I leave the pavement, my high heels sink into the grass and soft earth, and the fog becomes thicker. Heavier. Matching the weight constantly bearing down on me.

I used to come here often. Despite the pain. The anger. The loss.

Then my obsession with studying criminals and their patterns grew like the weeds underneath my feet: wild and unrestricted.

After the day I’ve had, I need to be here. I need to speak to my parents, choosing to believe they can hear me even if they can’t respond.

When I reach their graves, I stop, standing there for a moment, simply staring at the headstones. Their names are carved neatly into the marble, along with dates that mark the beginning and end of their lives. I kneel, brushing away a few fallen leaves from the stone, and sit back on my heels.

“Hi, Mom. Hi, Dad.” My voice is quiet. Full of longing. “It’s been a long time since I’ve visited. I’m sorry about that. And for the way I acted last time.”

A year ago, I came to grieve.

A year ago, I lost control.

A year ago, I questioned my sanity.

I can still see it in my mind as clearly as if it happened yesterday: the crushed beer cans, the cigarette butts, the remnants of someone’s careless night left to rot on the graves of the two people who meant the most to me. Like they were just another piece of trash to be discarded. Something inside me snapped. Whatever I’d kept tightly wound since my childhood momentarily broke loose.

I’d driven here with the intention of spending the day with my parents, telling them how much I missed them, how I was trying to make them proud. But when I saw the mess, the complete and utter disrespect, all I could see was red.

I didn’t think. I just acted.

I remember yanking open the trunk of my car, grabbing the baseball bat I keep there for protection, and marching back to their graves. The first swing shattered a beer bottle, the glass spraying across the headstones like a rain of jagged shards. The second swing took out the plastic table someone had dragged over, the pieces splintering under the force of my anger. I kept swinging, kept smashing, kept destroying until there was nothing left but debris and the sound of my own ragged breathing.

When it was over, I stood there, surrounded by the wreckage of what I’d done, my hands trembling, the bat still gripped tightly in my fists. The anger didn’t leave me—it just simmered, hot and painful, a reminder of how little control I really had. The pain, the grief, and the rage from the night of their murders came rushing back, brutal and overwhelming. And for a moment, I thought I’d drown in it.

I dropped the bat, falling to my knees and screaming. The sound tearing out of me like it was the only thing keeping me from shattering completely. I don’t know how long I stayed there, on the ground, sobbing like a child.

Eventually, I pulled myself together, wiped my face, and picked up everything I’d demolished. After that I straightened my appearance, putting my mask back in place, and I haven’t been back since.

Until today.

Because of Ghost.

“I went against my rules and met with a criminal today. He’s nothing like you or the people I try to save. Ghost is… dangerous and manipulative. He’s the kind of person I’ve spent my entire career trying to understand. And I hate him.”

I pause, taking a shaky breath. “I hate him because he reminds me of what happened to you. What was done to you.”

Tears sting my eyes when I reach out and trace the rough edges of their names on the headstones. Samuel & Margaret Prescott.

“I hate Ghost because one interaction, one fucking conversation is bringing all of it back. Everything I’ve tried to repress. He got inside my head, and I don’t know how to get rid of him.

“I wish you were here,” I whisper, my voice thick. “I wish you could tell me how to deal with this, how to move on. From everything. My need to understand. My obsession with the criminal mind. My curiosity with Ghost. All of it.”

I sit there, losing track of time, until my tears dry up, my legs go numb, and the sun sets. The potential danger in this place at night forces me to stand, my body stiff from my lack of movement.

“I promise to come visit you again,” I say. “And it won’t take me a year this time. I love you. So much it kills me.”

My stride is purposeful as I walk away. I leave the cemetery behind, feeling no different than when I arrived. Ghost still haunts me, and my parents remain dead.

However, my time spent with them is a reminder of the things that drive me. Because as much as I want to deny it, anger and pain are the only things that make me feel alive.

Two hours later, I unlock the door to my apartment and step inside. The quiet stillness of an empty home is the kind of silence that’s supposed to be comforting but never really is.

I drop my bag by the door and shrug out of my coat, letting it fall carelessly onto the nearest chair. Normally, I’d hang it up, keep things neat and orderly, but tonight… tonight I don’t give a shit.

My footsteps echo on the hardwood floors as I make my way to the kitchen. The day has been a blur, a relentless onslaught of noise, tension, and fear.

But my time with Ghost ended up being worth it.

They found Anna Lee.

She was dirty, barefoot, and curled behind a dumpster like a forgotten doll left out in the rain. Alive but only just. Her skin was a patchwork of bruises, her body frail from days without food, and her hands trembled so violently the paramedic had to steady her arm twice just to place the IV.

She’s safe now, but the damage is done. Her world will forever be colored dark, like mine and Sarah’s.

Now, with nothing but my thoughts for company, my mind starts spinning. Ghost’s voice is there, lurking in the corners of my psyche, whispering all the things I don’t want to hear. All the truths I’m not ready to deal with. I can’t get rid of him, can’t escape the feeling that he’s still with me.

I reach for the bottle of whiskey in my cabinet, my hand trembling slightly as I unscrew the cap. After filling a glass, I take a sip, the burn of the alcohol searing its way down my throat. It’s not enough to mute Ghost’s voice in my head.

“Geneva. I. See. You. The real you.”

I take another long drink, desperate to silence him, to push him back into the darkness where he belongs.

“You’re going to break.” I can see his twisted smile, feel the satisfaction in his tone. “And when you do, I’ll be there, waiting to pick up the pieces. To put you in a design of my making.”

CHAPTER 9

GHOST

She’s fucking exquisite.

Dr. Geneva Lynn Andrews.

Her name lingers in my mind like a sweet, forbidden melody, the kind that envelops you long after the music stops. I can still see her, the way she tried so hard to maintain that icy composure. To keep the walls up around her. As if they could protect her from me.

But I know better.

I saw the cracks, felt the tremors beneath that polished surface. That beautiful mask. She thinks she’s in control, but she’s not. Not anymore.

I glance around my cell, the dim light from the small, barred window casting long shadows on the gray walls. The room is sparse, bare of any comforts. It contains a metal bed bolted to the floor with a thin mattress, a steel toilet, and a small, scratched-up desk that’s seen better days. The air is stale, carrying the scent of mildew and disinfectant, but I’ve grown used to it. The walls are covered in faded graffiti and scrawls from previous occupants. They’re messages to no one in particular, just marks left behind by those who’ve passed through this place.

What legacy will I leave behind? It would be a shrine to Dr. Andrews if I was inclined to share.

Spoiler: I’m not.

Tucked behind the loose brick in the corner is a collection of notes. I’ve carefully written on and hidden away each piece of paper containing observations, plans, and thoughts. All of them concerning Geneva.

The moment she stepped into that interview room, I could sense it—the darkness in her, the one she’s tried so hard to hide, even from herself. It’s there, lurking just beneath the surface, waiting for the right moment to break free.

And I want to be the one to set it loose.

There’s something intoxicating about the idea of watching someone so tightly wound unravel. Especially when they don’t even realize it’s happening.

I can still hear the tremor in her voice when she asked about Anna Lee, the way she hesitated when I used her first name. Geneva. It suits her. So strong, so fucking sexy.

How many times have I whispered her name while following her?

How many times have I uttered her name while planning her future?

How many times have I groaned her name while fucking my hand?

The number is more than the years of prison I’ve been sentenced to.

Geneva hates me. I know that. But that’s what makes our relationship so interesting. Hatred is a powerful emotion—one that can be twisted, manipulated, turned into something much more potent.

She thinks she can keep me out, that she can walk away and forget about me, but she’s wrong. I’m already inside her head. It’s only a matter of time until I’m inside her body, with her legs wrapped around me and her moans in my ear.

“Shit,” I mutter. “You’re hard again?” I pose the question to my dick, staring at it with exasperation. “Okay, but this is the last time tonight, you greedy fuck.”

As I pull out my cock the dull fluorescent light overhead flickers, casting brief, erratic shadows across the room. It’s the only source of light in this place at night, and it’s unreliable at best. I’ve learned to ignore it, just like I’ve learned to dismiss the hum of the ventilation system and the muffled sounds of the other inmates down the hall, all of them constant reminders that I’m never truly alone. But in my mind, I am.

Right now, it’s just me and Geneva.

I lean back on the bed, the thin mattress doing little to cushion the hard metal beneath. The image of her face when she left the interview room, that mix of determination and something fragile, plays over and over in my brain. She’s already questioning herself, doubting her instincts. And that’s exactly where I want her mentally.

Physically, I want her underneath me.

I grip my cock, sliding my hand up and down the length, imagining it’s her touch. Her hands and her soft skin, her breathy sighs and her desperate moans.

My eyes fall closed, and I can almost see her, perched between my legs, her hair a dark curtain around her face. She’d look at me through her lashes, gaze heavy-lidded and heated. She might even bite her lower lip like she did when I looked at her mouth. She hadn’t even registered the giveaway to her desire. But I had.

“God, Geneva. You’ve fucking ruined me.”

She would smile, the expression sultry and sensual, before taking me into her body. I groan at the thought. I’m so fucking hard for her it’s painful.

My strokes become rougher, faster, the friction bringing me closer to release. I imagine her riding me, her tits bouncing, her pussy wet and tight. Her hands are on my chest, her nails leaving trails of red.

“Fuck!” I grit out.

In my fantasy, she whimpers, her body moving faster, desperate for me. And only me. I reach out, grabbing her hips, pulling her closer. I need to feel her, to own her. Inside and out.

She screams, the sound echoing in the chambers of my mind, and I come, fucking her as if she’s my prisoner, as if her submission is all that matters.

Actually, it is.

When I open my eyes, the beautiful imagery is gone. Only the stark, cold reality of my prison cell remains as the cum on my stomach and the sweat on my skin begin to cool. I’m still alone, the fantasy of her lingering like a ghost. That’s ironic as fuck.

I sit up, my heart rate struggling to return to normal. My cock is still half-hard, and I run my thumb over the head, smearing the cum Geneva pulled from my body. This momentary relief is not enough. It’s never enough.

Not since I first saw her.

She’ll come back to me. I know she will. Geneva needs answers, and I’m the only one who can give them to her. But more than that, she’s drawn to me, whether she wants to admit it or not. And that’s where I have the advantage.

While she’s busy trying to figure me out, she’s forgetting the most important thing: This isn’t about me. It’s about her.

It’s always been about her.

And when she finally sees that, when she understands what I’ve been trying to show her, it’ll be too late.

She’ll be mine.

I’ll wait because patience is a virtue, after all. Besides, the best games are the ones that take time to unfold. But soon enough, she’ll realize that the real battle isn’t with me—it’s with herself.

I can’t wait to watch her lose.

To win her for myself.

CHAPTER 10

GENEVA

It’s been two weeks since I saw Ghost. To be exact, it’s fourteen days, twenty-one hours, ten minutes, and thirty-three seconds… now thirty-four, but who’s counting?

Am I his obsession… or is he mine?

I bring the glass to my lips, taking a swig of the whiskey that’s become my constant companion recently. Drinking is the only thing that provides a measure of relief. Even then, even when I can barely stand, I still think of Ghost.

I’ve tried to push him from my mind, but the memory of him pervades my every waking moment. I see him in every case I study, every crime scene I analyze, and every night he appears in my dreams. Does that make them nightmares?

I’ve dealt with numerous psychopaths and sociopaths, studying them at length, and even interviewing a few. Ghost is different in every way. He’s batshit crazy, yes, but he uses his insanity effortlessly.

To disarm.

To unsettle.

To manipulate.

He’s clearly a man who understands the power he wields and uses it without hesitation or remorse. He’s mastered his madness, and in some ways that makes him more dangerous that I’d anticipated. Yet, I can’t stop thinking about him. That’s what bothers me the most.

I shouldn’t be captivated by the words he utilizes with deadly precision. Or the way he controlled the courtroom with just a few humorous comments. I should be disgusted, horrified.

I am disgusted.

But… there’s this little part of me, the part that always seeks out answers, that keeps whispering, Why him? Why now?

Out of all the cases I’ve worked, this is the only one that has embedded itself in me. I keep replaying our brief interaction, wondering if I missed something. Something important. Something that would explain why he affects me the way he does. And why he’s obsessed with me.

It doesn’t make sense since I’d never talked to him until that day in the prison.

I grab the bottle of alcohol and top off my glass before taking a generous sip. It’s probably a bad idea considering how much I’ve already had, but it’s the weekend and I can’t find the urge to care.

My phone chimes, the tiny sound loud in my bedroom. I groan, roll over, and grab my cell phone. It takes way more effort than I’d like to admit. Through squinted eyes and blurry vision, I look down at the text message alert before unlocking the screen to view it.

Unknown:

I stare at the screen, my thumb hovering over the text. The single emoji, along with the simplicity of it, is unnerving, more frightening than words could ever be. My heart pounds in my chest, the sudden rush of adrenaline burning away the alcohol haze in an instant.

I blink a few times, rub my eyes, and sit up in my bed. The text is probably from a wrong number and here I am, imagining the worst.

You’re drunk and totally overthinking this.

I shake my head with a hollow laugh. It’s just an emoji, a tiny, stupid symbol that means nothing. This isn’t the first time I’ve received a text that wasn’t meant for me.

I put my phone back on my nightstand and glare at my glass of whiskey as if it’s the reason I nearly had a heart attack. Then I lie back down and force myself to breathe evenly to help calm my racing pulse.

The logical part of my brain asserts itself into my thoughts, pushing back the unease that still roils in my stomach. Ghost is in a maximum-security prison. There’s no way it’s him. None.

Paranoid much, Geneva?

I flinch when another text alert echoes in the room. With dread coating me like a second skin, I retrieve my phone and unlock the screen.

Unknown: What’s your definition of a ghost, Dr. Andrews?

I freeze. The air around me is thick, suffocating me. The darkness of the room presses on me from all sides until the only thing I can focus on is the message glaring up at me from the bright screen. With my name on display, I can’t deny that this was meant for me.

It’s Ghost’s voice I hear in my head as I read the words. Calm. Confident. Amused.

It can’t be him.

I repeat the sentence over and over in my mind, then again out loud. It’s a mantra of desperation. But no matter how many times I say it I can’t deny the way my chest aches with shallow breaths. The logical part of me is screaming in the void, while the rest of me—the part that’s been caught up in Ghost since the moment I met him—knows better.

The words on the screen burn into my eyes, into my soul as if branding me. My fingers tremble around the phone even though I’m unwilling to accept what’s staring back at me.

The urge to respond is strong. I want answers, need to know how this is happening. I type and delete a few sentences, unsure of what to say, until I finally settle on something. Simple and direct, unlike my chaotic thoughts.

Geneva: Who is this?

My finger hovers over the send button. Part of me doesn’t want to engage, doesn’t want to give Ghost—or whoever this is—the satisfaction. But I can’t let it go. I hit send and stare at the screen, waiting, my heart in my throat.

A few seconds pass. Then another chime.

Unknown: You already know, Geneva.

The phone falls from my numb fingers and lands on the comforter. My throat tightens, my breath coming faster. This can’t be Ghost. But who else could it be?

Maybe someone is trying to mess with me—someone who knows that I’m the only one who’s spoken with him. This is just some sick joke.

But no one knows how deeply this case has etched itself into my psyche, how much time I’ve spent thinking about him, dissecting his every word, trying to understand him.

No one else… except maybe him.

My heart thuds painfully against my ribs, a slow, steady beat, like a drum warning me of something I’m not prepared to face. This isn’t a prank.

How did Ghost get something as restricted as my number, much less a phone?

I scan my room, unable to shake the feeling that someone’s watching me. That he’s watching me. But that’s impossible. Ghost is locked up.

What if he’s not?

I move abruptly, knocking my glass over in the process of turning on my lamp. The whiskey spills across the nightstand, pooling on the wood, but I don’t care. I can’t sit in the darkness anymore.

Finding myself alone, I glance down at the phone, relief still eluding me. A small part of me itches to pick it back up, to read the message again. And answer him.

I grab my phone against my better judgment. The same judgment that has failed me time and time again when it comes to this man.

Geneva: What do you want?

Unknown: So, so, so many things. But tonight, I just want you to answer the question.

Geneva: Go to hell.

Unknown: Very rude, not to mention unprofessional, Dr. Andrews.

I stare at the text, every fiber of me screaming to block this number and end the conversation. But I don’t. I can’t.

Instead, I sit there transfixed as every interaction with Ghost flashes through my mind. His eyes locking with mine across the courtroom. The way he smiled, like he knew more than anyone.

Like he knew me.

My cell phone vibrates softly in my hand as another alert appears on the screen.

Unknown: I’ll make this easier for you. Do you think of a ghost as something that represents the dead, or do you see it as something that haunts the living?

I clench my jaw, my mind buzzing with the implications of his words. He’s playing with me, drawing me in, feeding off my pain. Except, he shouldn’t know anything about me beyond the surface-level details of my professional life. He shouldn’t know me like this.

I sit there, staring at the messages, my thoughts spinning out of control. In death, my parents haunt me. The memories, the survivor’s guilt, the endless questions. All of it has shaped who and what I am, and why I’m having this conversation to begin with.

But then there’s him…

Ghost isn’t like my parents. He isn’t someone I loved and lost. He’s something else—a living phantom, drifting through my life, possessing my thoughts. He’s alive, yet he feels like a ghost too, haunting me in an entirely different way.

Am I tormented by the dead or the living? The answer comes to me. Or maybe it’s been there all along, and that’s his point.

Geneva: Both. I think of a ghost as both of those things.

Unknown: The dead and the living, always overlapping.

Unknown: It’s my reality too.

His reality too?

A sense of understanding rises in me before I can stop it. His response is very telling. Vulnerable in a way that humanizes him. I mentally rail against viewing him in this light, knowing this could be nothing more than lies designed to manipulate me. To force compassion from me in a way he doesn’t deserve.

How many times do I have to remind myself that he’s a serial killer?

Unknown: You feel it, don’t you? The connection between us?

I should call Detective Harris right now, delete these texts, or throw the phone across the room, anything to break this fragile bond between us. It pulses within me like a slow-burning ember, not ablaze but still hot enough to provide warmth. And pain.

I want to believe that I’m not reporting this in order to discover more for Ghost’s psych evaluation. But right now, this interaction isn’t about professional curiosity. No, this is something more. Something personal.

The ember of connection flickers and for a moment I can feel myself drawn to Ghost in a way that’s stronger than before. His words echo in my mind, each one dragging me deeper into a shared darkness, into a space where his ghosts and mine meet.

Fourteen days, twenty-two hours, seven minutes, and twelve seconds since I’ve seen Ghost…

Come Monday morning, I’ll be back at zero.