Anarchy Found (SuperAlpha, #1)(49)

“Well,” I say, more to myself than him. “I guess no one really needs me here now. Were you here when they took the body?” I ask the maintenance guy.

“Uh, no. Not this time.” He finishes changing the bulb and steps down off the ladder.

“Were you there for the last three?”

“Uh, yep. I changed the lights on those too.”

“What?”

“Flickering bad, they were. Giving people a headache. So I changed them. You know, they say fluorescent lights in the workplace can drive people insane. You think that’s why he blew his brains out?”

“Um.” Why does that stupid question make me pause? There’s something in my brain. It’s a like a little tickle that says, Pay attention. “I don’t know, but I’ll look into it. And hey,” I say, “do you know if they’ve determined a time of death?”

“Yup,” he says. “Early morning Saturday. That’s what I heard, anyway.”

Jesus Christ. If this is Lincoln’s work, then he f*cked me in that maze and went and killed someone afterward. “Thanks for your help. If either of the Mr. Montgomerys come around, let them know I was here and left, will you?”

“If I see ’em, sure will, lady.” And then he walks off down the hallway, taking his ladder with him.

I look around the room, casually taking it all in, and then leave as well. Whatever evidence was here is gone now. Picked up by the others who came in my absence and if not, it’s all ruined by contamination anyway. So I make my way back down to my bike and drive back to the station.

Luckily the place has quieted down considerably when I walk in the door. Sunday afternoon shift change means people are ready to get out of here as fast as they can. Roger isn’t at the desk now, it’s the old woman who’s been here for like four decades. “Got a delivery while you were gone. I put it on your desk.”

“Oh,” I say. I almost forgot I even had a desk. With stacks and stacks of paperwork piling up, I’m sure. “Who’s it from?”

“No return address on it. So I guess you’ll have to open it up and see,” she snarks back.

“How do you know it’s not a bomb? Or anthrax? Someone could’ve put anything in there and you just set it on my desk?”

“Relax, Detective. We haven’t blown up yet. Go away and let finish my paperwork.”

“Bitch,” I mutter under my breath. This place is worse than the circus as far as procedures go. Everyone under the tent would’ve been dead if they were as sloppy about safety as this department is.

But there is nothing I can do except shake my head with disgust as I pass through the doors. My desk is way, way, way in the back of the main room. But I can see a small package wrapped in brown paper sitting in front of my computer.

Who wraps shit in brown paper?

I glance around, wondering if anyone else thinks it’s weird that I got a package, but there are only about half a dozen cops in here at the moment, and none of them are paying any attention to me and my package.

So I just say, “Fuck it,” and walk over there. When I pick it up, it’s lighter than it should be. Very light. Too light to be a bomb.

Stop, Molly.

I find the edge of the paper and tear it open to uncover a thin white box. There’s no card. I sit down in my chair and set it on my desk to stare at it.

I don’t even have to open it. I know who it’s from and I don’t want to have to face the problem that he’s turned into right now. So I push the little white box away and start going through the hundreds of emails that have piled up over the week. Forms, forms, and more forms to be filled out.

I spend the rest of the day getting things done and still that little white box waits for me. It taunts me. It begs me to open it. But I force myself to get the work done first. I know if I let Lincoln back into my thoughts, the internal monologue that comes with him will take over my day. But finally, after the place gets busy, quiets down, and gets busy again, I’ve done every possible thing I can do to avoid opening that box.

“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.