His silence infuses the air. At least he’s intelligent enough not to ask the obvious, tired questions. There are no surgeries left. No matches. No alternative treatments. I’ve exhausted all viable options.
Mercifully, he doesn’t make me say it.
“Then why are you still here,” he asks, the vehemence in his voiceroughened to gravel. “If you came here for one purpose, why didn’t you just leave once you got it, Collins?”
I nod slowly, gaze falling to the printouts tucked at his side. “That was always the plan, to vanish before you ever realized anything. It would’ve made this easier. Knowing nothing about me. Believing I just disappeared. Then I realized something for myself.”
I lift a page, holding it before him. “I told you that I didn’t understand how you could’ve made such a blatant mistake at Bethany Beach. Not until I was here, able to observe you. You were never reckless, Orion. Fearless, yes—but too cautious to leave evidence behind. And your impulsive behavior…it didn’t align. It’s as if with each ritual, each kill, you’ve been losing pieces of yourself. At first, I thought psychological decompensation, but?—”
I angle the printout into his line of sight. A structural MRI with the clearance report attached. The workup Banner requested two years ago—the version that was altered. The proof, undeniable.
“I honestly thought you swapped the paperwork in your file yourself,” I continue, measuring his reaction. “That you feared any evidence of deterioration after your wreck would jeopardize your research—your grants, your credibility. An institution wouldn’t risk backing a researcher whose cognitive function was deteriorating. It would call into question the integrity of your work.”
Orion remains silent, the intensity of his gaze unnerving. Not once does he glance at the damning evidence between us. Then, with a controlled breath, he says, “Go on.”
My chest constricts. “I thought this because of what I found.” I tap the corner of the page. “This is the clearance workup, Orion. The version that was filed with the university.”
I lift the second sheet that displays the same header, same date,but the readout is different. “And this is the original,” I explain. “The one that mentions ventricular enlargement. It recommends a follow-up.”
The damage wouldn’t have been obvious after his wreck, taking time to build. And unless symptoms were reported, to know where to focus, it’s the kind of finding that’s easily overlooked.
I lower the pages. “Then I realized who would benefit more from keeping a progressive neurological condition like hydrocephalus hidden. From the board. From the university.” I take a slow, steady breath. “Even from you.”
Banner’s words echo back at me from beneath the colonnade that day:I’ve done my best to protect him.
“Banner was raking in funding off of you,” I tell him. “But as you became erratic, difficult to control, especially with violent incidents and large expenditures, he needed a contingency?—”
“Leo brought you here to diagnose my condition,” he says, his incredulous laugh a bitter sound in his throat. “To get me out of the way. Free of any blame.”
“Yes,” I answer him, softening my voice. I push my hair over my shoulder as I lower myself closer. His body heat seeps through the shirt, making me shiver. “But this explains what you’ve been experiencing. Headaches. Blurred vision. Cognitive lapses. Impaired impulse control. Bouts of anger and violent outbursts. Even sadistic urges and compulsions toward deviancy.”
A weak smile tips his mouth. “You might as well label me a madman.”
An ache burrows deep, and I slide a tender touch over his chest. “As your memories deteriorate, it’s like sensing a stranger in your own mind,” I confirm. “Often a violent one, allowing a darker, destructive nature to take up residence.”
His fingers clench around the chess piece, knuckles paling—and for a torturous moment, I’m tempted to release him, craving to feel his touch just once more…
I force myself to retreat a safe measure. “Orion, your need for the rush is a way to fight the literal tide swelling inside your skull,” I say gently. “It’s the intracranial pressure, rising and falling like ocean waves, squeezing away cognition.”
The queen drops from his grasp, clattering against the floor. A flutter attacks my chest, my heart banging against my rib cage.
“This is why you’re so obsessive about your research,” I press on, making him hear me. “Why you’ve been trying so desperately to retrieve those lost echoes—your memories.”
He drags in a breath, tension tight in the line of his jaw. His silence pulls taut between us as my fingertips lift hesitantly, tracing the spiral of inked stars winding along his bicep.
“You’ve imprinted them onto yourself,” I whisper, following the path up his forearm. “Creating a mnemonic map, like a memory palace, coded from celestial charts and symbolic imagery. Recording your memories helps you remember what you feel is important.”
It’s why it’s not obvious that he’s losing any important ones. I wonder how often he has to decode them, to modify the ink. If he’s left the most painful memories out, willing to let them fade, and an unbidden thought of Emma enters my mind.
“God, you’re so fucking clever, starling,” he finally says. Though this time, his words hold no amusement.
On impulse, my gaze flicks to the starling inked across his hand, just above the leather belt. My first hint to this terrifying secret of his. It was there on the shore, in the waning light, when the pieces began to slot painfully into place.
I reach up and grasp his hand, interlacing our fingers. I press the tips of mine against the glyphs above his knuckles. His code inked in stark black.
? | ? φ ?
One dot. One line. Two parallel lines. Phi. And a five-point star.
