Текст книги "Depraved devotion"

Автор книги: Morgan Bridges

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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

CHAPTER 20

GENEVA

Unknown: Actions have consequences.

I stare down at the screen, my fingers tightening around my phone as I reread Ghost’s message. What the hell is that supposed to mean?

I rise and begin pacing, my bare feet slapping against the hardwood floor. Every nerve in my body feels like it’s on fire, charged with anger. I could call my boss. I should call Allen and let him know Ghost has been sending these messages and that he’s threatening me now. But then I’d have to explain why I didn’t say anything when the texts first arrived, and… that’s a rabbit hole I’m not ready to dive into.

Besides, what’s the point? There’s no way Ghost can actually do anything. He’s locked up, behind bars where he belongs. Whatever power he thinks he has, whatever manipulation he’s trying to pull, it starts and stops with the phone.

I march into my bedroom, grab my gym bag, then my shoes and jacket. If Ghost thinks he can get in my head and make me doubt myself or make me too scared to leave my own apartment, he’s wrong. So fucking wrong.

As I step outside, the cool evening air hits my face, clearing my mind a bit. The city lights blur as I walk at a brisk pace. I need to move, to breathe, to get out of my head.

I retrieve my phone, tempted to text him back, to tell him exactly what I think of his threats. But I stop myself. That’s what he wants.

Instead, I slip the phone back into my pocket and keep walking, the weight of Ghost’s threat still lingering in the back of my mind. He’s just trying to scare me. He can’t do anything. He’s in prison. He can’t touch me.

The neon “24-Hour Gym” sign flickers against the black sky, its buzz low and constant as I push open the door. The space is mostly empty at this hour, just a few dedicated souls pounding away on the treadmills or lifting weights in the far corners. It’s quiet enough, and that’s what I need right now.

I move to the locker room, slipping into my workout gear. The familiar routine of pulling on leggings, lacing up my sneakers, and tying my hair back is calming.

Discipline. Order. Efficiency.

This is the only way to keep my life from falling apart. Every action pulls me a little further away from the chaos swirling inside my head. Away from Ghost’s words, his threats, his dark promises. I can’t control him, but I can control this.

I step out into the gym, the smell of rubber mats and disinfectant filling the air. I head straight for the punching bag in the corner, the one that’s seen better days, its leather worn and cracked.

I wrap my fingers, tightening the strips of cloth around my knuckles. The feeling of my hands protected and ready to fight soothes me.

The first punch lands with a satisfying thud against the bag. The force of it ripples through me, and I exhale, my breath a sharp hiss. I hit again, harder this time, the impact vibrating up my arm. With every strike, the tension in my body ebbs a bit more.

Ghost’s voice is still there in the back of my mind, taunting me. I slam my fist into the bag again, picturing his face—his smirk, that insufferable look that always says he knows something I don’t. The impact vibrates through my arms, sharp and satisfying.

My knuckles throb, the dull ache intensifying with every bit of forceful contact, but I don’t stop. The pain is good. It grounds me, gives me something tangible to focus on.

I hit harder, my breath coming in quick, shallow bursts as I push myself further. Sweat drips down my face, and the rhythmic sound of my fists colliding with the worn leather echoes around me. There’s no room for anything else in my mind but the bag, the burning in my muscles, and the steady throb in my hands.

For a moment I pause, resting against the wall, breathing hard as I wipe the sweat from my brow. The gym hums quietly, machines whirring in the background, but it’s mostly empty. Just a few stragglers on the treadmills who glance at me on occasion, their expressions wary.

Can they see the demon chasing me? Can they hear his voice?

I punch the bag again, then again, until my arms scream with exhaustion and my legs tremble. Only when I can barely stand do I finally stop, my breath ragged, my body spent.

I slowly unwind the wraps from my hands, wincing as the fabric peels away from my skin. I stare down at my knuckles, the skin cracked and bleeding. My body has taken punishment so my mind could be at peace.

The streets are quieter when I step back outside, the city deepening in repose. As I walk, I reach for my phone, half-expecting another message from Ghost. But the screen is blank. No taunts. No threats. Nothing.

A moment of peace? Or a calm before the storm?

I head home, each step slower than the last as the exhaustion creeps in. When I reach my apartment, I unlock the door and step inside, locking it behind me with a sense of relief.

This is one of the few times that being alone isn’t the worst thing.

I drop my keys on the counter and shrug off my jacket before jumping into the shower. After that, I throw on sweats and a t-shirt before collapsing onto my bed with a groan. The exhaustion is welcome, numbing the edges of my mind. Eventually, the dull hum of the city outside lulls me to sleep…

My phone chiming with a notification yanks me from repose. I groan, blindly reaching for it on the mattress. Once located, I squint at the screen, my fingers fumbling as I unlock the device.

The light is too bright, too harsh against the darkness of my bedroom, and it takes me a moment to read the words.

Unknown: Good morning, Dr. Andrews. Turn on the news.

I sit up quickly, my heart pounding against my ribs as I reread the message, trying to make sense of it. Dread weaves through me as my fingers hover over the screen. I’m hesitant to obey, but I have to know what’s going on.

After grabbing the remote, I turn on the TV and select the news channel. The reporter’s voice is solemn, heavy with the gravity of her story.

“Police have confirmed that a man was found dead in his downtown apartment early this morning, just after dawn. He has been identified as Mason Rivers…”

I freeze.

“Authorities are treating the case as a homicide.”

No. I shake my head, disbelief washing over me like ice water. No, no, no.

The image on the screen shifts to Mason’s building, police tape draped across the entrance, the flashing red and blue lights in the background. The reporter’s voice continues, but I can barely hear her. My mind is racing, my pulse hammering in my ears.

Mason is dead.

I watch in stunned silence as the details emerge, the sympathy in the reporter’s voice doing nothing to soften the brutality of what was done to him. The word “torture” is mentioned, and I flinch, the horror of it sinking in. She doesn’t go into specifics, but the implication is there, thick and suffocating.

Nausea hits me so hard that I slump onto the mattress as the room spins. I wanted him out of my life. But not like that. Mason didn’t deserve this ending.

It wasn’t just murder. Someone made him suffer.

A cold thought slips into my mind, and my stomach churns violently. Ghost. It had to be him. But how? He’s in prison. He couldn’t have done it himself.

Or did he?

Ghost is nothing if not resourceful. He could have hired a hitman to do the job for him. He must have influence. Power that reaches far beyond those bars.

I cling to that thought because the alternative—Ghost physically breaking out and doing this himself—is too terrifying to consider. If he can orchestrate something like this from behind prison walls, there’s still a level of separation. It’s less personal. He didn’t do it with his own hands.

But that thought doesn’t comfort me. Mason’s dead because Ghost wanted it. He told me so in person. I didn’t want to believe it then, but I sure as hell do now.

A sharp knock on my door shatters the silence. I nearly jump off my bed as a cold wave of fear washes over me. Another knock sounds, more insistent this time. It’s too early in the morning for visitors. And it’s not Ghost.

He wouldn’t knock.

My body moves on autopilot as I get to my feet and shuffle toward the door. I unlock it with trembling fingers and pull it open, revealing two police officers standing in the hallway, their expressions grim.

“Dr. Geneva Andrews?”

“Yes,” I reply, my throat dry.

The second officer steps forward, his hand resting lightly on his belt. “I’m Officer Kwan. This is Officer Jacob. We’re… we’re sorry for your loss, ma’am. Mason Rivers was found dead in his apartment this morning.”

“I just saw it on the news.” I swallow hard. “Thank you.”

The officer nods. “We know this might be difficult, but we need you to come down to the station. Just a few questions to help move the investigation along since you were one of the last people to contact him. We want to catch whoever did this as quickly as possible.”

“Okay, give me a second.”

I grab my jacket and phone, sending a quick text to Allen so he knows I’ll be late for work. The officers step aside, allowing me to close the door before leading me down the hallway. My mind spins, a chaotic jumble of conflicting thoughts.

Ghost is responsible for this.

But how do I explain that without sounding insane myself?

CHAPTER 21

GENEVA

An interrogation room is designed to strip away all sense of control and any shred of comfort. The walls are a dull, lifeless gray, similar to a cage, in order to elicit feelings of vulnerability and the sensation of being trapped. The fluorescent lights overhead buzz, casting harsh shadows that distort everything, causing the mind to play tricks on itself. The cold metal table is too wide to foster connection, but too small to escape the pressure of the conversation. There isn’t a clock or any windows, just suffocating silence. Every inch of this room is meant to break the suspect. I’m familiar with the mental games that are being played.

Except this is my first time on the other side of the table.

Only, I’m not here as a suspect. I’m here to help. They need answers.

And I need closure.

The door creaks open, and the detective walks in. His steps are measured to show he’s not rushing, that he has authority over the situation. Tall, broad, with a quiet intensity behind his eyes… he’s a professional who’s done this a hundred times.

“Dr. Geneva Andrews,” he says, voice low and steady, sitting across from me with a folder in hand. His eyes dart toward my cheek, and there’s the briefest pause on the fading bruise. He’s already drawing conclusions.

I tilt my head, widening my eyes a little. It’s to show a bit of vulnerability, a flash of discomfort. Although, I don’t have to fake it.

“I’m Detective Brooks. I understand you were involved with Mason Rivers.” He leans forward, clasping his hands on the table between us. A dominant stance.

I meet his gaze. “That’s correct.”

“How long did your relationship last?” he asks.

“A little under a year.”

“And how did it end?”

“I broke it off two weeks ago,” I say evenly. “We both knew it wasn’t working.”

“Not working how?”

I lean forward, matching his posture. A calculated move. Mirroring builds rapport. “There were issues.” I pause, then add, “He had a temper.”

Brooks narrows his eyes. “Did things ever get physical between you?”

I give him a small nod, and angle my head so he can see the fading bruise more clearly, showing I have nothing to hide. “Yes. He hit me the night I broke it off.”

The detective taps his fingers. “What did you do after that?”

“I didn’t want to escalate things, so I didn’t retaliate.” Although if Mason had come at me again, I would’ve beat the fuck out of him.

“When was the last time you saw Mason?”

“The night I broke up with him,” I say, meeting his gaze squarely. “I never contacted him after that.”

The detective opens the file in front of him, scanning the pages. When he lifts his head and his focus lands on me, his eyes are cold. I stiffen at the abrupt shift in his demeanor.

“Where were you last night, Dr. Andrews?”

He’s pushing now, no longer pretending to be curious. This isn’t an interview anymore.

It’s an interrogation.

I lift a brow. “Am I a suspect?”

“You’re not under arrest. We’re simply asking all of his close associates their whereabouts so we can build a full picture.”

A rehearsed line. Noncommittal. Legally safe.

He doesn’t answer the question—just redirects it into something procedural. The detective suspects me of the murder, but has insufficient evidence to establish probable cause for arrest.

Or I’d be in handcuffs right now.

“I was at the gym,” I say.

“Late at night? Alone?”

“I go to a 24-hour gym. It helps me clear my mind.” I keep my eyes on his, watching the way his jaw tightens when my voice doesn’t falter. “There are cameras. They’ll show I was there.”

He nods slowly, scribbling something down. “We’ll check that. But tell me, Dr. Andrews—did you ever feel the need to hurt Mason? After he hit you?”

“No,” I say, my voice steady. “I didn’t want revenge. I wanted to move on.”

Detective Brooks leans forward. “So, you’re telling me Mason hit you, hard enough to leave a bruise that’s lasted several days, and you never thought about hurting him back? Not once?”

“No. I just wanted out.”

Brooks scoffs and throws up his hands. “You expect me to believe this shit? The man was violent toward you, and you’re saying you felt nothing? No anger? No resentment? Come on, Dr. Andrews, you’re a psychologist. You know better than anyone that’s not how it works.”

I don’t blink. “I understand human behavior. I also know how to control my emotions.”

He slams the file shut with a snap, and for the first time, irritation leaks through a crack in his professionalism. “Bullshit.”

I brace myself.

“Bullshit,” he repeats, his voice louder now, more intense. “You expect me to believe you just walked away from a guy who hit you, humiliated you, made you feel like nothing, and not once did you think about getting even?”

I meet his gaze, not allowing myself to flinch. “I didn’t kill him.”

Detective Brooks smiles, but there’s no humor in it. “You didn’t kill him? Really? Because it sure as hell looks like you did.”

Before I can respond, he reaches into the file and pulls out a stack of photographs, slamming them down on the table in front of me, one after the other. The impact makes me jump, and I glance down at the images, my stomach twisting.

Mason’s body. Broken. Bloody. And Carved.

Actions have consequences.

The words are deep gouges across his chest. A message. For me.

My breath lodges in my throat, and I force myself not to look away, not to react. I’ve seen pictures like these before, but never of someone I knew. Never of someone who had been a part of my life.

Detective Brooks watches me with an intensity that makes my skin crawl. “Do you recognize that phrase?” he asks. When I shake my head, he curls his hands into fists. “‘Actions have consequences.’ You’re telling me that vengeful statement is mere coincidence?”

I swallow, forcing my gaze away from the gruesome images, the horror etched into each one. My voice, when it comes, is steady but strained. “I understand why you think I killed Mason, but I’m telling you that I’m innocent.”

“Look at him again!” Brooks jabs his index finger on one of the photographs, his voice harsh. “Look at what was done to him. Then tell me again that you didn’t think about getting revenge.”

I swallow hard, my pulse racing, but I manage to keep my face void of any emotion except shock. “I didn’t.”

He leans in closer, his eyes locked on mine, studying every flicker of emotion, every microexpression. “Well, whoever did this, took their time. They enjoyed it, Dr. Andrews. This wasn’t just about murder. This was personal.”

I fist my hands in my lap, the weight of his words pressing down on me. I force myself to breathe, to stay calm. “I agree with you, but I didn’t kill him.”

Brooks slams another photo down, this one worse than all the others. It’s a close-up of Mason’s face. His eyes are wide, frozen in a twisted mask of sheer horror, pupils blown with the fear he couldn’t escape. His mouth has been forced open, and a candle, half-burned, is lodged between his lips, wax smeared grotesquely across his chin. The wick is charred, blackening the edges of his mouth, indicating excruciating pain.

“Since this is your specialty, Doctor, do you care to explain why Mason has a candle in his mouth? Or why it was lit?”

I stare at the image, bile rising in my throat. Then I cover my mouth with my hand and briefly close my eyes, pulling in breath after breath until I’m certain I’m not going to vomit. Detective Brooks grins with a victory that’ll be short-lived. My reaction is not going to send me to jail, but I’ll be a prisoner of this image for the rest of my life.

Ghost. This has to be his handiwork. But how do I explain that to the detective without sounding crazy? How do I convince him that this isn’t my revenge when that’s what it looks like?

I take a slow, steadying breath, forcing my focus onto the details, letting the clinical detachment I’ve honed over the years take over. I look down at the image of Mason, the grotesque candle wedged in his mouth, and the carvings on his chest, and begin to analyze everything. When I speak my voice is that of a professional.

Geneva, the ex-girlfriend, has been replaced by Dr. Andrews, the expert.

“The candle is symbolic. By forcing it into Mason’s mouth, they wanted to deny him a voice in his last moments. However, the candle is small enough to allow his muffled screams to be heard by the killer, for him or her to enjoy them. And lighting the candle…”

I pause, glancing briefly at Brooks. “Lighting it indicates a level of sadism. The killer wanted the wax to drip, to burn his mouth and throat slowly before he died.”

Brooks watches me, his expression unreadable, but I press on, needing to finish this exercise. “This wasn’t impulsive or sloppy. It was methodical, almost ritualistic. The phrase ‘Actions have consequences’ carved into his chest is a message.”

I nearly trip over my words, unable to ignore that the message wasn’t just for Mason. It was for me. This entire gruesome act was for me.

“The killer believes Mason wronged them,” I say. “The offense was severe, indicated by the depth of each letter into the skin. Whoever did this wanted to make sure that Mason understood his behavior wouldn’t go unpunished. That’s why Mason was still alive when the murderer cut into his skin.”

Brooks crosses his arms, his gaze unrelenting. “Go on, Doctor. You sound like you’ve thought about this a lot.”

I ignore his baiting me, keeping my focus on the psychological elements. “This kind of staging is designed to elicit terror and helplessness in the victim. The candle, the carving—all of it is deliberate. They didn’t just want him dead, although that was always the end goal. Whoever did this wanted Mason broken, humiliated, and silenced before death.”

I meet Brooks’s gaze head on, my voice resolute. “So, yes, Detective, this was deeply personal. But knowing how and why it happened doesn’t make me responsible.”

Brooks studies me, the corner of his mouth tightening. “Your insight might be useful, Doctor, but don’t think for a second it clears you. Maybe you’re just good at hiding your work.”

“I didn’t kill him.”

The detective’s lips curl into a bitter smile. “If you’re innocent, then give me a suspect.”

My mind races while I struggle to hold on to the control I’ve worked so hard to maintain throughout this brutal interrogation. “I don’t have a name. All I can give you is the address to the gym. It has cameras. Check them.”

Detective Brooks doesn’t take his eyes off me. The photos lie scattered between us like the broken pieces of a puzzle he’s determined to force down my throat. He taps his fingers against the table, his gaze sharp and calculating.

“You’re a smart woman, Dr. Andrews. You know exactly how to present yourself to avoid suspicion. Most people would crack under this kind of pressure, but not you.” He tilts his head. “You’ve got the training, the experience. You know how to manipulate a situation, don’t you? How to use your responses and body language to appear a certain kind of way?”

His words cut through the air, but I don’t flinch. It’s my job to study people’s reactions and interpret their body language. But he’s right about me. This isn’t the first time I’ve used my education to my advantage.

The corners of his mouth twitch as if he’s holding back. He hates this. Hates that I haven’t broken. But there’s a flicker of respect behind the coldness in his gaze. He recognizes I’m not like other people he’s dealt with.

Like Ghost, this man is one of the few who haven’t underestimated me.

Brooks leans back in his chair, his shoulders slumping. “I’ve seen brilliant minds like yours before. People who think they’re untouchable. Who believe they can outsmart everyone around them because they’re too smart for their own good.”

He pauses, his eyes boring into mine. “But here’s the thing, Dr. Andrews. Brilliant minds? They make mistakes. Eventually, they all do. And when that happens, I’ll be right there.”

I raise my chin. “I know my rights. Either you arrest me and I demand legal representation, or I’m leaving.”

There’s a moment of silence, thick with unspoken accusations. Then Brooks smirks, a frustrated, tight-lipped expression as he slowly rises from his seat. “You’re free to go, but don’t make any travel plans.”

He steps aside, opening the door with a deliberate slowness to display power. “Don’t think for a second this is over. I’ll be watching you, Dr. Andrews. I always catch my killers.”

“Good luck with that.” Because he’s already in prison.

I gather my things, standing as calmly as I can, even though my heart is pounding in my chest and my legs are trembling. Without another word, I walk out of the room, leaving behind the cold interrogation room and the photos of Mason’s broken body.