Raw Edges (2 page)

Morgan shook her head. She looked miserable.

On the surface, she was dressed like a young executive, someone from a glossy magazine cover. Made up to look like she was in her twenties, even though he knew she was only fifteen—or at least that was the age she’d finally claimed. Who knew what the truth really was when it came to Morgan?

Despite appearing impeccably ready for the world, he saw through her mask effortlessly—another warning sign that things were very, very wrong. Dark circles hid beneath her makeup, and when she stood to begin pacing, her gait was agitated instead of the well-balanced, always ready-to-strike poise she usually exhibited. Gone was her preternatural aura of calm command—an aura that always reminded him of Lucy, truth be known.

“What is it, Morgan?” he asked, using his most reassuring tone.

“I can’t sleep,” she finally admitted. “Haven’t for days.” Restless energy sparked from her as she stalked the room, weaving around his desk, the couch, coffee table, and two chairs. “At first I wasn’t trying to sleep, was busy setting up security measures, watching for Clint, but then, when I tried…” Her voice trailed off with an uncertainty that was alien to the Morgan he knew.

“Can you tell me why? What’s keeping you awake?” Morgan could sleep anywhere, anytime; since she didn’t feel anxiety about the events of the day, there was never anything to keep her awake, worrying like normal people. One of the many reasons why she considered her sociopathy as not a diagnosis of maladjustment but rather a sign of superiority.

“No. Can’t you see? That’s the problem, I can’t explain it.” The words gnashed free from her clenched jaws.

Nick had never seen Morgan like this—usually he had to push to force her to feel any emotions, much less acknowledge them. “You’ve mentioned the mania you sometimes experienced when you participated in your father’s activities.”

Every fiber of his being cringed at the thought of what Clinton Caine’s activities had included: stalking and abducting women, using his own children as bait; taking his victims to remote locations where he’d imprison, torture, and rape them until they bore children of their own—his children. Caine had been desperate for a family, one that would obey him and feed his desire for pain.

Nick had no idea where Caine’s pathology stemmed from—from his own family, most likely—but the father had definitely warped and ruined his favorite daughter, turning Morgan into an inhuman killing machine. It was a testimony to Morgan that she’d been able to break away from that indoctrination by blood.

She prowled the room with jittery steps, a supernova ready to explode. “I wish I could make you feel it, understand.” The words came at a stuttering pace. “It’s nothing like what I felt with Clint. That was…gleeful. A rush of power. Nothing, no one, could stop us. We were our own gods.” She spun to face him, the dark circles beneath her eyes making her appear haunted. “This, this is nothing like that. Back then with him, I’d stay up for days on the sheer thrill of adrenaline, but this…I’ve never felt like this, never.”

“Okay, okay.” He kept his voice soothing. “I’ve an idea. It might sound kind of weird, but work with me here.”

“What?” Her gaze was heavy with suspicion. “No pills. I don’t want any drugs messing with my head, especially not now with Clint loose. I need to stay sharp.”

“No pills,” he promised. “But we need to understand what’s going on with you. If you can’t sleep, you can’t stop Clint.”

She nodded at that. He motioned to the love seat, and she plopped down in it, acting for once exactly like the fifteen-year-old girl she was. Occasionally, after a meeting with Morgan and returning home to his own teenaged daughter, Nick mourned what could have been. Morgan would have been a remarkable, beautiful girl—if her father hadn’t ravaged her childhood in such a brutal manner.

“Now what?” she asked.

He eased into the chair across from her. “Now close your eyes.”

She did but then immediately popped them open. “You’re not going to try to hypnotize me?”

“No, nothing like that. I’m not going to do anything but listen. You’re going to do all the work. Close your eyes.”

Her expression was doubtful, but she did. It occurred to Nick that he was probably the only man on the face of the planet that Morgan would feel safe to drop her guard with. Well, maybe Andre Stone as well. The former Marine had won Morgan’s admiration and respect. Two out of seven billion? The odds were stacked against her in so many ways. Even without a vicious serial killer on her trail.

“They’re closed. What do I do now?”

“Now tell me about this feeling you have.” She opened her mouth, but he continued before she could protest. “Not how it makes you feel. Instead, I want you to imagine the feeling come to life. Imagine it as a place or a scene, something you’re doing. Don’t try to put the emotion into words. Rather, find the place that feels the same and take a look around, notice every detail.”

“Like what Micah does with his drawing?” Micah Chase was a boy whose life Morgan had saved. As much as Nick would love to get her to open up about her feelings for Micah, feelings he knew she hadn’t even admitted to herself, giving her the skills she needed to cope with her father’s escape from prison took priority.

“Exactly. Think of it as drawing a scene. What are you doing there? What’s the weather like? What does it smell like? Who else is there with you?”

She hugged her arms tight around her chest, a self-comforting act he doubted she was even conscious of.

“Have you found your place?” he asked.

“Yes. It’s cold, so cold. And dark.” God, had she returned to one of her father’s killing places? Many of them had been underground. He leaned forward, ready to redirect her, but she said, “Except the stars. I’ve never seen stars so bright. It smells like Christmas. Pine trees and snow.”

“Where are you, Morgan?”

“I’m walking on water—a pond frozen over? It’s so black, it’s like I’m walking on the stars reflected in it. But I don’t feel special or powerful enough to walk on water. Each step is an agonizing choice, the ice groaning, one wrong step and it will crack. It’s too thin, too brittle. It can’t protect me. No matter which way I turn, I’ll step wrong.” Despite her obvious fear, her voice remained calm, no panic—Morgan never panicked.

“Look up, Morgan. Do you see anything else?”

Her chin slid upward even as her eyes remained closed. “Oh God,” she breathed out, anguish filling her voice. “They’re all here. Because of me. I brought them here.”

“Who? Who’s with you, Morgan?”

“All of them. Micah, Andre, Jenna, you…not Lucy.” Her forehead frowned. “Why not Lucy?”

He didn’t want to color her visualization, but her instincts were correct: Lucy had stopped Clinton Caine twice already; she had little to fear from him. And Caine was smart enough to stay far, far away from giving Lucy a third chance to put him down like the rabid dog he was. “What are the others doing?”

She shook her head, avoiding his question. “No. No. They shouldn’t be here. But they came. Because of me.” Her hands fisted, raised as if fighting an unseen force. “The ice, it’s too thin. It’s groaning under the weight, it’s cracking. I can’t stop it, I can’t help them.” She gasped, hands flying up to cover her face. “It broke. Swallowed me whole, pulling me down into the dark, black cold, I can’t breathe, I can’t fight, I can’t see the stars…”

She flew off the love seat and launched herself at him, eyes bulging with terror. She gripped Nick by the shoulders although from the expression on her face as she loomed over where he was trapped in his chair, he knew she’d rather have her hands around his neck. Progress.

“You lied,” she accused him, her voice ratcheted tight with adrenaline. “You hypnotized me.”

“No, no, I didn’t.” His voice was calm, professional. He fearlessly met her gaze. “You did it all on your own.”

She released him and stepped back, glancing at the love seat as if surprised to find it still there and not drowned in the lake she’d conjured. “Was I dreaming? Did I fall asleep?”

“Not exactly. It was just an exercise in imagination. Some people aren’t good with words, do a better job with images. You created an entire scene to describe the anxiety and dread you’ve been feeling but couldn’t otherwise express or label.”

“Dread.” She tasted the word, grimacing. “Dread. Like there’s someone or something stalking you, watching every breathing second, herding you toward some inescapable horror. And you’re powerless. Can’t stop, can’t fight.” She turned to Nick. “Is that dread?”

“As good a description as any. A pervasive feeling that something terrible is about to happen.”

She shuddered. “How do you Norms survive? Walking around with all these emotions dulling your reflexes. No wonder you’re sheep. Easy prey.”

She didn’t mean any insult with her words; they were simply Morgan’s view of the world, colored by her upbringing and lack of empathy. The fact that she’d progressed to the point where she could feel dread or anxiety, much less the unconscious empathy she’d shown the other people present in her imagainary scene, gave Nick hope. Despite the fact that Morgan was the most damaged person he’d ever treated, maybe she still had a chance.

“Why were those people with you on the pond, Morgan?” he asked in a gentle tone.

She waved his words away with a hand. “Fools. Trying to play hero. I don’t need their help.” Her very presence here in his office exposed her lies, but she didn’t seem to notice. “I won’t let them.”

“Won’t let them help you?” Nick probed.

“Won’t let them fall victim to Clint.” She took in a deep breath, her gaze clear once more. A decision made. “Thanks, Nick. That helped.”

“How so? We haven’t come to the reason behind your feelings, merely given them a name.”

“A name is all I need. I already know the reason.” Her smile was not genuine—at least he hoped it wasn’t, filled as it was with teeth and bloodthirsty glee. “All I have to do now is stop Clint. For once and for good.”

AFTER LEAVING NICK,
Morgan approached the Galloway and Stone offices with caution. First, she parked the car she’d borrowed from the long-term lot at the Pittsburgh airport several blocks away from the office’s Regent Square location. Then, she meandered down the sidewalk, taking her time as she glanced at the various art galleries and antique shops, occasionally wandering inside one. It was ten o’clock on a Friday morning, and most stores had just opened for business, leaving her their only customer—making it easy to spot anyone overly interested in her aimless browsing.

Finally, she got a coffee and checked her phone, scanning footage from the cameras she’d placed to spy on the office. Nothing. Was that good or bad? Her father had escaped from prison four days ago; his first act as a free man had been to call her and tell her he was coming for her, and yet…nothing.

Dread, Nick had called it. Should have never have gone to him, let him play his headshrinker games. Nick meant well, but he was used to treating Norms, not someone like Morgan. He didn’t understand that it didn’t matter what she felt or what label you gave it, all that mattered was the end result. She had to focus on that. Forget all the rest. Mumbo-jumbo feelings were for Norms, not Morgan.

She sipped at her coffee—wasn’t sure if you could even call it coffee, she’d ordered some mocha-frothy nonsense that fit with the persona she was wearing, but it did taste pretty good. Not that that mattered, she’d simply needed the distraction for anyone watching the person they would see as a twenty-something blonde wearing dark blue slacks and a cowl neck beneath a hoping-for-spring pink wool coat. Appearances were everything.

The warm drink did its job, removing the chill of the late March morning. Although it definitely didn’t ease Morgan’s mind. She pocketed her phone, not sure whether to be worried or relieved at finding no signs of surveillance.

Dread. Never knowing when the blow could come or which direction it would come from. However you labeled it, Clint had perfected its creation. It’d been her father’s unique signature in his former occupation of sadistic serial killer. She’d spent a large part of her life as the chief object of his emotional manipulation, but until now she hadn’t fully appreciated how much freedom she’d enjoyed while he’d been behind bars.

And now Clinton Caine was free. Ready to pick up where he’d left off. Her mouth twisted as if the coffee had gone bitter.

“Something wrong, miss?” the barista asked, rubbing the March Madness promotional button she wore on her apron. The entire city was gearing up for the Pitt game tonight, especially as it was being held downtown at the Arena. Morgan could tell the woman took pride in her work, was genuinely worried. What luxury—having nothing more than coffee to worry about. It was difficult to even imagine.

Morgan rearranged her face into a bland smile. “No, nothing. I’m just running late.”

“I like your coat. It’s nice to see spring colors.” She nodded to the grey March clouds that made it impossible to tell if it was morning or night—until the sun blazed through them, blinding drivers and pedestrians alike for a few wistful moments before vanishing faster than
Punxsutawney
Phil seeing his shadow. Typical schizophrenic Pittsburgh spring. Barely above freezing this morning, a high near sixty predicted, and they were calling for sleet and snow again tonight and tomorrow. March Madness indeed.

“Thanks.” Morgan snuggled deeper into the soft wool of the ankle-length coat. She was certain the color had a pretty-girl name like rose cream or rose blush, and she’d only stolen it because it fit with the blond persona. Ordinarily, as herself, she’d never wear a coat that would attract attention like this one, but when you wanted people not noticing or remembering your face, sometimes a diversion like a pretty pink coat was necessary. If anyone ever asked, Morgan had practically crafted the barista’s testimony for her: blond, early twenties, in a pretty pink coat, acted like a secretary or maybe a salesperson for one of the upscale Regent Square boutiques.

She finished her coffee, left a generous tip to further cement her persona, and left, the sun following her movements, breaking free of the clouds in a golden blaze.