There are still some gaps I need filled. Like who took care of the evidence at the dark-sky preserve, though I can now make a pretty good assumption on that. And while I’d like to believe she did it to protect me, that’s likely just my poor, love-sick heart. No, Collins was willing to risk everything to keep not only me hidden at Stonehurst, but herself.
And whether it was my chaotic kill site that ultimately led this agent here, or if it was Prescott’s doing, once the FBI appeared, I knew my time with Collins was limited. But I’d take every stolen second with her I could get.
Now, this agent and I are about to become very close friends.
“Since you apparently know who I am…” I say, cocking an eyebrow.
He hesitates before giving me his name. “Special Agent Zeke Darby.” He jerks against the cuffs, frustration mounting. “Just tell me where she is,” he demands once more, a resigned breath escaping. “I just need to know she’s okay.”
After studying him a beat longer, I grunt as I stand, striding toward the main console. “She’s gone,” I say bluntly.
“What the fuck did you do to her?—”
“She left,” I cut him off. “Got what she needed from me, then took off.”
He releases a harsh curse beneath his breath. “Fucking hell, Hol.”
A fierce knot of resentment tightens in my chest at the familiarity in his voice. I brace my hands against the desk, gloved fingers moving across the keys. Collins is good—impressively good—doing a hell of a job erasing her digital trace from my system. Almost perfect.
But echoes linger.
And those residual patterns are enough for me to follow.
My science once felt heartless—but it’s never been without heart.
A purpose.
I didn’t so much as code an algorithm as score one. Ada Lovelace referred to it as poetical science; the concept that an engine could weave algebra into music, that machines could create composition.
I’d like to think mine achieves something similar, only cast in a far darker register. Written in a minor key.
As I lock onto the pattern, I drum my fingers and tap a final key, the signal resonating deep within this dark, haunted part of me. The piece of my soul waiting, listening, suspended in breath-bated anticipation for the next notes of her melody.
Her whole song.
Ourcomposition.
Once the system is closed out, I crouch down in front of the agent, producing the key. As I unlock one of the cuffs, his eyes narrow on me, expression wary.
“You’re letting me go,” he questions, suspicion threading his voice as I move to the second handcuff.
I halt for a brief moment, my gaze lowering to the worn, braided band circling his wrist. Clicking open the cuff, I meet his eyes. “Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I know what it’s like to suffer for loving the stars too much.”
The words scrape raw at the confession, knowing too intimately the wrenching agony when their light fades, their celestial bodies extinguished long before that light ever reaches us.
A conflicted look crosses his face. He rubs his freed wrist, watching me closely as his confusion morphs into contempt. “You think you’re in love with Hollyn,” he says slowly, the derision in his tone striking an exposed nerve.
My jaw hardens, a furious fire igniting my bloodstream. In an instant, I have his throat clutched. “Collins,” I correct him through gritted teeth. “That’s her name. The one she chose.”
He holds my menacing gaze, defiant even under my ruthless grip, before finally conceding with a strained nod.
I release him abruptly and stand. “Let’s go.”
He remains rooted, unmoving. “Where?”
