Andrew. She could almost see the gleam in his eyes at the thought of this story.
“He wants us to do it.”
She was less mad. “What does that mean?”
“He said we can do the story as a podcast—a long-form, character-driven series. He’ll produce. Well, he will if the network accepts his pitch. And when has anyone turned down golden boy Andrew Thompson?”
“Wow,” she said, a mingle of excitement and worry doing a dance in her chest.
“Our terms to be negotiated, of course.”
Some of her guilt for following the story dissipated—at least she might be bringing some money in. This wasn’t just a passion project, her own personal grudge match, dredging up a past she couldn’t forget, hurting people in the process. It was a real story for a major network.
“Are you mad?” asked Gillian.
“Yes,” said Rain without heat.
“I’m sorry,” said Gillian. “It was too good not to pitch. This is big, Rain. It’s your story, but it’s bigger than that. It deserves more than some indie project that gets buried in the app store.”
“I’m not even sure I’m up to doing this,” she admitted.
“You are,” said Gillian. “Of course you are.”
There were lots of layers to the story, personal things she wasn’t sure she was ready to face or share. There was a mystery, an investigation. It looped in a man with whom she shouldn’t even be involved—for a million reasons. She wouldn’t have pitched it to the network. If they accepted, she’d lose control of the story. It would take on a life of its own, sweep her along with it. Still, there was that dark tingle of excitement—that deep drive to get to the heart of the story, even if the truth was the most painful thing of all. It was a big story. A career-maker. Yes, she still wanted that. It felt good to admit that she did.
SEVENTEEN
Agent Brower is back—again. It’s my morning without patients, the one I usually reserve for study and research. On these free mornings, I might review my patient notes, connect with colleagues to talk things through—patient issues or challenges. Maybe I’ll even have a session with my own therapist. We all have them, you know. No one needs a shrink more than a shrink. Later, I’ll go to the hospital to see one of my more troubled souls, then take evening sessions in my office.
I’m edgy, distracted.
I spent most of the night reviewing Agent Brower’s files, going over her notes. I’m gratified to report that they have very little to go on. Those images from the home security cameras, even the short video. They’re grainy and blurry, the person unrecognizable. Masked. Moving fast. He’s not identifiable in any way.
Using what she has, though, I’ve created a loose profile for her, developed some theories. Former military or law enforcement, someone young, strong, intelligent. Someone who has been disillusioned with the system, who considers himself above the law, but working in tandem with its underlying philosophies. He’s following some code. Likely, he would not be married. He might have a criminal record.
So, when I see her face on the camera, I’m ready. I buzz her in and go to the kitchen, put on a pot of coffee.
“If you don’t get caught, maybe it’s time to give this up.” Tess.
She has been worried, all night, pacing as I put together my notes for the FBI, a disingenuous activity if ever there was one. My profile is not purposely misleading. There are some elements of truth to it.
Tess has never been a big fan of my dark activities. After all, she’s Sandy’s daughter, all about love and forgiveness, karma, and the balance of the universe. The things I’ve done—the things he’s done—it’s just more of the same as she sees it.
“At a certain point,” she says. I pour the not-quite-boiling water into the filter. “You’re just one of them.”
But no. I’m not like them. I wasn’t born, like Kreskey. I didn’t come into the world damaged, my mental illness deepening through trauma and abuse. I don’t seek out innocence and destroy it. I was made, by Kreskey. Now I unmake. I am a doctor. I remove the cancer, even though I have to make a cut to do it. Sometimes we must harm to heal the world.
“Bullshit,” says Tess easily. “You like it.”
She’s right. I have grown to like it. The truth is I’m not sure I want to stop.