The days after Julian's arrest blurred together like watercolors left in the rain. Adrian spent them in a haze of fluorescent light and stale coffee, answering the same questions over and over again. Internal Affairs took his statement. The state prosecutor's office took his statement. A panel of three grim-faced officials from the attorney general's office took his statement, their pens scratching against legal pads like the legs of dying insects.
He told them everything. Or almost everything.
He told them about the operation, about the cover identity of Elias Vane, about the journal he had left in the library and the books that had appeared on his doorstep. He told them about the Boat House and the greenhouse and the sketches on the walls. He told them about Silas Crane, the old fisherman who had died with a white rose on his chest, though he was careful to frame it as a death he had witnessed rather than one he had facilitated.
He did not tell them about the scalpel in his pocket. He did not tell them about the night he had stood in the ruined fort on Widow's Point, surrounded by twelve glass vials and the ghost of a soldier who had believed that mercy was not a crime. He did not tell them that he had fallen in love.
They knew that part already, of course. Vance had told them. Mara Kincaid's first article had told them. The whole world knew that Detective Adrian Crowe had fallen in love with the Mercy Killer. It was the detail that had transformed the story from a crime report into a sensation. Newspapers ran headlines like "DETECTIVE'S DEADLY ROMANCE" and "LOVE AMONG THE ROSES: The Cop and the Killer." Television networks devoted entire segments to analyzing the psychology of what they called "Crowe Syndrome," a term coined by some criminologist in the capital who had never set foot in Hartwell Bay.
Adrian ignored all of it. He gave his statements and answered his questions and waited for the disciplinary hearing that would determine his fate.
The hearing took place in the municipal building on Mariner's Row, a granite edifice that had once been a courthouse and still smelled of old wood and older judgments. The room was small and windowless, lit by fluorescent tubes that buzzed faintly. A long table faced a single chair, and in the chair sat Adrian, his hands folded in his lap, his expression carefully neutral.
Chief Elara Vance sat at the center of the table, flanked by two officials from the state police and a representative from the prosecutor's office. Vance looked tired, her iron-gray hair pulled back in a severe bun, her uniform crisp but her eyes shadowed.
"Detective Crowe," she began, her voice formal, "this hearing has been convened to determine whether your conduct during the Mercy Killer investigation constitutes a violation of departmental policy. You are not facing criminal charges at this time, but the findings of this hearing may be referred to the prosecutor's office if evidence of wrongdoing is uncovered. Do you understand?"
"Yes," Adrian said.
"Then let's begin." Vance opened a file folder and withdrew a sheaf of papers. "You were assigned to the Mercy Killer investigation on the authority of this department. You proposed and executed a reverse sting operation in which you posed as a suicidal individual in order to lure the suspect into revealing himself. Is that correct?"
"Yes."
"And during the course of this operation, you developed a personal relationship with the suspect, Julian Voss."
"Yes."
"A romantic relationship."
Adrian met her eyes. "Yes."
The official from the state police, a heavyset man with a mustache that looked like a dead caterpillar, leaned forward. "Detective Crowe, did you at any point provide material assistance to Julian Voss in evading capture?"
Adrian thought about the night of the storm, the frantic packing of the vials and journals, the dash along the cliff path to the ruined fort. He thought about Miss Grimshaw's warning and the sirens in the distance. He thought about the decision he had made, standing in the amber light of the Boat House, to choose Julian over the law.
"No," he said. "I did not."
The state police official exchanged a glance with his colleague. "We have testimony from Chief Vance that you missed multiple check-ins. That you were given a seven-day deadline to produce an arrest and failed to meet it. That when officers searched the Boat House, the suspect and key evidence were gone."
"Julian Voss was a careful man. He moved the evidence before the search. I was not aware he had done so."
"And the suspect himself? He claims you attempted to arrest him and he resisted. Is that accurate?"
Adrian thought about Julian's conditions, the gift he had given Adrian with his confession. "Yes. I told him I was a police officer and attempted to take him into custody. He fled. I pursued him to the newspaper office, where he ultimately agreed to surrender."
It was a lie wrapped around a truth, or perhaps a truth wrapped around a lie. Adrian could no longer tell the difference.
The representative from the prosecutor's office, a sharp-faced woman with spectacles perched on her nose, spoke for the first time. "Detective Crowe, are you aware that Julian Voss has confessed to five murders? That he has given detailed accounts of each killing, including dates, methods, and the disposal of the bodies?"
"Yes," Adrian said. "I am aware."
"And are you aware that he has consistently maintained, in every interview, that you were not complicit in any of his crimes? That you were, in his words, 'the only person who tried to stop me'?"
Adrian felt his throat tighten. "I am aware."
"Does it not strike you as unusual that a man who has confessed to multiple murders would go to such lengths to protect a police officer?"
"No," Adrian said. "It doesn't."
"And why is that?"
Adrian looked at the sharp-faced woman, at the state police officials, at Vance, who was watching him with an expression he could not read. "Because he loved me," Adrian said. "And he didn't want me to go to prison."
The hearing lasted another three hours. When it was over, Adrian walked out of the municipal building into a cold, gray afternoon. The fog was rolling in from the sea, swallowing the fishing boats and the shopfronts and the gulls on the pier. Mara Kincaid was waiting for him on the steps.
"You look terrible," she said.
"I feel terrible."
"Did they rule?"
"Not yet. Vance said she'd issue a decision within the week." Adrian sat down on the steps, his legs suddenly unable to hold him. "They're going to suspend me. At best. At worst, they'll refer me for criminal charges."
Mara sat down beside him. "I've been working on the story. The real story. I've interviewed everyone I can find—neighbors, former patients, people who knew Aldridge before he left town."
Adrian looked at her. "And?"
"And Aldridge is not who he claims to be." Mara reached into her bag and withdrew a notebook. "He wasn't just a small-town doctor. Twenty years ago, he worked at a state psychiatric hospital in the northern provinces. He was fired after a patient died under suspicious circumstances. The official report said it was a suicide, but there were questions. Questions about whether Aldridge had helped the patient end their life."
Adrian felt his pulse quicken. "He was doing it before Julian. He was releasing people before Julian."
"It gets worse." Mara flipped through her notebook. "The patient who died was a woman. Her name was Ingrid Voss. She was Julian's aunt. His mother's sister."
The world tilted. Adrian gripped the cold stone steps, his mind racing. "Julian's aunt. Aldridge knew Julian's family before Julian was ever born."
"He didn't just stumble across Julian after his mother died. He's been connected to the Voss family for decades. He knew about the Huntington's disease. He knew it ran in the family. He knew Julian would likely end up caring for his mother the same way he had cared for his aunt." Mara's voice was urgent. "Aldridge didn't just use Julian. He groomed him. For years. Probably since Julian was a child."
Adrian stood, his exhaustion forgotten. "We need to tell someone. The prosecutor. The police."
"I've already tried. The prosecutor's office isn't interested. They have their confession. They have their killer. They don't want to complicate the narrative with a second villain." Mara closed her notebook. "But there's someone who might be interested. Someone who might be able to help."
"Who?"
Mara pointed across the street. A black sedan was parked at the curb, its windows dark, its engine idling. Standing beside it was a woman in a gray suit, her hair pulled back in a severe bun, her pale eyes fixed on Adrian.
Miss Grimshaw.
Adrian crossed the street, his boots splashing through puddles left by the morning's rain. Miss Grimshaw did not smile. She did not greet him. She simply opened the back door of the sedan and gestured for him to get in.
"We have much to discuss, Detective," she said. "And very little time."
The sedan pulled away from the curb and wound through the narrow streets of Hartwell Bay, past the shuttered fish market and the empty pier, past the Athenaeum with its dark windows and its creaking sign. Miss Grimshaw sat in the back seat beside Adrian, her hands folded in her lap, her expression unreadable.
"I told you I had sources in the police department," she said. "What I did not tell you is that those sources extend far beyond Hartwell Bay."
Adrian looked at her. "Who are you?"
"I am a librarian. That is not a lie. But I am also a keeper of secrets. A protector of stories that the world is not yet ready to hear." Miss Grimshaw turned to face him. "Julian Voss is not the first person I have helped. He will not be the last. But he is the first person I have failed."
"You didn't fail him. Aldridge—"
"I gave Julian the plague journal. I gave him a philosophy that told him his brokenness was a gift. I did not know that Aldridge was already guiding him toward that conclusion. If I had known, I would have acted sooner." Miss Grimshaw's voice was steady, but there was a current of grief beneath it. "I have spent five years watching Julian Voss do terrible things, and I told myself I was preserving his story. I was not. I was enabling him."
Adrian looked out the window. The sedan had left the town behind and was climbing the winding road that led to the cliffs. The Wraith's Perch was somewhere up ahead, its windows dark, its door battered by the wind.
"Where are we going?" Adrian asked.
"To see someone who can help us. Someone who has been watching Aldridge for years." Miss Grimshaw paused. "Someone who knew your father."
The sedan pulled to a stop outside the Wraith's Perch. The cottage was dark, as Adrian had left it, but a light was burning in the window. Someone was inside.
Adrian got out of the car and walked to the door. He opened it slowly, his hand on the scalpel in his pocket.
A man was sitting at the rough-hewn table, his back to the door. He was old, his white hair thin and wispy, his shoulders stooped. He was reading Adrian's journal, the one he had left on the table the night he fled to the Boat House.
"Detective Crowe," the man said without turning around. "I've been waiting for you."
Adrian stepped inside, his heart pounding. "Who are you?"
The man turned. His face was lined and weathered, but his eyes were sharp and clear. He looked at Adrian with an expression that was almost gentle.
"My name is Corbin Aldridge," he said. "Elias Aldridge is my younger brother. And I am here to help you destroy him."
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