“Night, Masters,” a guy leaving with some other officers calls from a few desks over. “I know you’re the new guy, but everyone gets to go home eventually.”
I shoot him a smile. “Night, guys.” Then I lean back in my creaky chair and sigh, exhausted. “Well,” I say to myself. “I guess I can’t avoid it any longer.” I lift the lid on the little white box and pull away some crackling tissue paper to reveal…
His gloves.
They are leather and they have small flat studs pounded into the shape of the anarchy symbol. These were not the ones he was wearing last night. I’d have noticed that. But they are an admission of sorts. He’s the Anarchist Killer.
I pick them both up and hold a part of him in my hand. These are the gloves of a very sick man. Does he wear them to keep his hands clean? How poetic.
That’s probably not why, but he sent them to me for a reason. It’s some kind of truce, but am I willing to make peace with the fact that he’s running around this town killing people?
I want to, I really do. I want nothing more than to immerse myself into Lincoln Wade’s life and let him do what he does best. Take over. Be in control. Be Alpha.
But what little part of myself would I be giving up if I did that? What would he want in return? My silence, at the very least, right? I should arrest him, no questions asked.
I slip my hands into the soft leather and a sigh actually escapes as I flex my fingers. They are big on me and I like that. I like his hands, even though he hides them from me.
Why send them to me? Because I asked him to take them off last night and he refused? Maybe it’s not a truce. More of a white flag? No, it can’t be surrender. I don’t see Lincoln as a man who surrenders so easily.
They’re a calling card, like the symbol he left behind on that man’s forehead. Like the printouts of his crimes plastered all over his cave.
Maybe he’s telling me there’s room for negotiation. If that’s the case, I owe him another meeting, right? I can’t just walk away if he’s got an offer on the table. At least not until I hear him out.
I know I’m rationalizing, but after I lost Will I got depressed because I had no more connections in this world. I left my life in the military behind, even though I would never count anyone I was working with as family—it’s not like I was in combat, for fuck’s sake. It’s not like my co-workers and I were bonded by death and destruction, by sacrifice and survival. It was security. And yeah, it was high-level security, not mall-cop shit. But they were mainly acquaintances.
Lincoln might be the only person on this whole planet I would count as family. We were made for each other. Should I really walk away from that if he’s willing to talk through it with me?
The speed limit is generally something I obey, but not tonight. I race home as fast as I can, zigzagging my way through traffic and speeding up to avoid red lights. I park the bike in the garage, set the stand, and take my helmet off, setting it on the seat. The door in the garage that connects to the house is partly ajar.
I was right. He was calling me home with those gloves.
My heart flutters with excitement and anticipation. Fear too, if I’m being honest.
When I walk through the kitchen the first thing I see is Lincoln Wade sitting at my table. His bare hands are folded neatly in front of him and even though I can’t say for certain that he wasn’t covering them up with gloves to keep the blood off them as he murdered people, I can say for certain that was not why he took them off tonight.
Because both of his palms are glowing bright red.
Chapter Thirty-One - Lincoln
“No squad cars following you in?” I ask Molly.
“Not yet,” she says, stepping into the house and kicking the door closed behind her. “But don’t think I won’t call them, Lincoln.”
I shrug with my hands and her eyes track to my palms. She stares hard at them for several seconds before breaking away and looking for my face. “Did you get a good look?” I ask. “It’s what you wanted, right?”
“Not really.” She draws in a deep breath, her eyes darting back to the light that is now yellow-orange. My heart is still beating fast, but not as fast as it was when she first appeared. “What are they?”
“You don’t know what happened to me,” I say, returning to our conversation from this morning. “And you can say things like I chose Case and Thomas over you, or that I walked out, or that I’m a sick monster who deserves to be put down like a dog. You can say all that. And even if it’s not all one hundred percent true, it’s all partially true. I did choose Case and Thomas, but not for the reasons you think.”
“Is that why you’re here? To make me feel special?” she asks, walking over to the table and pulling out a chair. She takes a seat and I can see the weariness in her face. She’s tired.