“And do what?”

“Kill them. Kill them all.”

“One man?” asks Ailes.

“How many guards are here?”

“Two on the door. Another two watching the lobby. I’ve been here for a few hours. I dozed off for a bit. Why?”

“Did you see anyone place the flowers here?”

Ailes stares at the bouquet. His mouth opens to say something, but he’s speechless. He runs to the hallway to talk to the policemen guarding the door. Damian was in my room proving my point. Ailes runs to the hallway to talk to the police officers guarding the door.

I lie back and stare at the ceiling.

Damian’s kiss is still warm on my cheek. I’m bothered by how much it comforts me.

If I don’t stop him he’ll get them. I don’t doubt that for a moment. I can sit here and let that happen. Everyone will tell me I’ve done everything I could. I’ve gone above and beyond the call of duty. The Warlock is in jail. Maybe we haven’t proved it’s him, but I know.

Meanwhile, my obsessive sociopath is out there trying to protect me. He wants revenge, not justice.

Maybe it would be better if I let him do that. But I made an oath to uphold the law. I can’t let Damian fight my battles. I don’t need a protector.

I pull the IV from my arm. The floor is cold. It’s better than feeling numb.

I put on my clothes and go into the hallway. Ailes is dressing down a local police officer. “Jessica?” he says as he sees me standing, still a little unsteady.

“We have to stop them. We have to stop them all. It ends.”

“I know that. There’s nothing more we can do right now.” He gently grabs my arm.

“Yes there is.” I feel my knees beginning to buckle.

“We don’t know how many are out there. They’re fanatics. They think this man is God.”

My fingers dig into his forearm, more for balance than emphasis. “Then we kill their god.”

He relaxes his own grip. “I don’t suppose putting you in restraints will work . . .”

I fight back the urge to just lie down and let things wash over me. Things are clearer to me now. I see an end to this game. “Not a chance.”

67

THE MAN WE BELIEVE is the Warlock is sitting in a small room watching the television on the other side of a wire grid. The only sign of movement is his eyes flickering across the images on the news. His bound wrists rest on the metal table where they’re handcuffed.

A guard unlocks the door and lets me inside. Haywood, whatever his name, sees my reflection in the television. His spine snaps straight for a moment before he relaxes into his normal posture.

It’s the little reactions like this that tell me who he is. As a cop and a make-believe mind reader, you look for how people react when they don’t think they’re being observed. This shows you their true nature. I unsettle Haywood behind his mask.