Page 25 of Twisted Shadows
“I thought Grayson believes it’s permanent.”
“Oh, he does. He believes down to his soul that once an empath is corrupted, there’s no going back.” Aisha cleared her throat. “He made that condition for me. BecauseIwant to believe we can get the pacifists back.”
“So do I,” Jamey said firmly.
That made Aisha smile. “You should see how much Victor Nichols, the Polaris director, hates Grayson for coming in and disrupting his kingdom up at Polaris. But Nichols doesn’t have a choice; there’s never been anyone with Grayson’s complete immunity to empaths before. EI and Stone Solutions know he’s unique and theyneedhim.”
“Reece said it was Grayson’s corrupted empath brother who took away his emotions and let him become the Dead Man.” Jamey’s voice had gone—not soft, exactly, but softer, with something like sympathy. “Had EI already created the Dead Man role before that happened?”
“No,” Aisha said, with the same pang she always got when she thought about it. “I don’t know much about what happened to the Grayson brothers beyond it being some bad, twisted shit. But when everything came to light and EI Director Traynor discovered what Grayson had become, he swooped in to capitalize on the opportunity.”
“Like vultures,” Jamey muttered. “But then, as you said: there’s no one else like Grayson. Guess they couldn’t pass that up.”
After they hung up, Aisha tabbed over to another social media account, this time Cora Falcon’s, which hadn’t been updated since that November night. Aisha scrolled through the first few pictures, all of Cora and her fiancé, John. John had been a doctor at a veterans’ hospital, Cora a therapist. They looked so happy together, gazing at each other like they couldn’t believe they’d gotten so lucky.
Aisha ran a hand over the scar on her neck. Itwasunbelievable luck, to be loved by an empath.
Her gaze lingered on Cora, the obvious adoration for her fiancé in her eyes, the sweet expressions on her pretty face, the way she’d rested her head against John’s as they took another beaming selfie.
Marie Pelletier had been horribly lost and now Cora was a murderer.
“Some of us know you’re a victim too,” Aisha said out loud, to Cora’s picture. “They better be treating you okay out on the North Coast. We’re going to solve this murder, and then afterwards, I’m coming to make sure they are.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Again and again, society expects monsters to do them the courtesy of looking like monsters. People want evil to be ugly; to judge on sight; to be spared the effort of thinking for themselves. They want to pick a team, and then fervently believe the bad guys are, of course, only on the other team.
They’re so woefully unprepared for REAL monsters.
—EXCERPT FROM UNTITLED BLOG
Director Traynor helpedhimself to another bite of the Wagyu beef tartare, gaze occasionally stealing to the sprawl of Seattle’s night lights far below. The restaurant’s lighting was dimmed to allow the view to take center stage, the white tablecloths softly glowing around the room as candlelight reflected off the cocktail glasses on most tables. Marist certainly never skimped when she invited him to join her.
Nichols was with them again as well, ignoring both his companions and the rotating view of Seattle at night as he tapped on his phone.
How many times had the three of them dined together now? Traynor had lost track. He’d made the requisite protests early on that it was unseemly for the head of the Empath Initiative to accept expensive trips and dinner from Stone Solutions, but Marist knew exactly the right responses, joking that Stone Solutions ought to be buying him plenty of drinks to make up for all the headaches they gave him. Traynordeservedthese dinners, she would say, delivering the line with a laugh.
She was very good at the game. Forceful means would have been obvious, but couch it all in friendly smiles and bright tones of voice, and it was easy to give in to her gifts and entertain her every suggestion. Marist could have been a politician; her constituents buying into whatever lies she sold because she delivered the message so kindly.
Marist glanced at Nichols, then, who was still on his phone. “Victor, we have the director of the Empath Initiativeright here,” she said playfully. “We’re plying him with foie gras and cognac; this is the moment to ask EI for whatever you want.”
She winked at Traynor, making it a joke despite every word being stone-cold truth.
“Polaris needs more funding,” Nichols said, not looking up from the phone. “A lot more funding. Our new guest, Cora Falcon, was responsible for a senator’s murder, after all.”
“Yes, look how busy Victor is,” Marist said. “Poor man is working through dinner.”
Nichols glanced up. “Conducting stress tests,” he said. “Somehow I always end up being the one stuck doing the, shall we say, delicate work?”
All of them knew Traynor would never ask for details. Plausible deniability was a very important part of the balance. The actual mechanics of any tests were the domain of the scientists; the Empath Initiative director simply approved or denied whether they took place.
Traynor picked up his drink. “Tell me more about how much funding you need.”
Reece was overly familiar with places vegan insomniacs could haunt in Seattle, and went from the beach to a coffeehouse by Rainier University that was open late and did fair trade hot chocolates with house-made almond milk. He spent the evening hunched over a table at the back, scrolling through job postings on his phone with increasing hopelessness. He’d dropped out of college junior year—thanks, anxiety—and was inept at tech. What was he even qualified to do besides consult on nonviolent crime and nag about traffic laws? And Jamey had texted to say Liam was going with her to Port Angeles in the morning and she didn’t need Reece’s car; who was he supposed to nag now?
He of course had kept on his gloves inside the coffeehouse, trying to ignore the attention they drew. But there were only so many nervous, distrusting, sometimes flat-out hostile looks Reece could stand in one evening, and he left sooner than he’d planned, making it home a little after eleven.
He parked in his spot on the second floor of the high-rise’s garage, his beat-up Smart car flanked by a Mercedes on one side and a Lexus on the other. His side of the garage overlooked the same street as the studio, and as he climbed out of the car, he paused.
