Officials are seeking information on the murder of Ericson Daverns. His body was discovered behind a Dumpster near Daverns’ apartment building. The report states that Ericson was viciously stabbed thirteen times. His blood-covered body was found with no identification, money, or shoes. Officials suspect robbery as a motive, but are asking for anyone with information to please come forward.

I recline back in my chair and steeple my fingers together. I wince at the pain in my hand, but it’s not enough to deter me from churning theories, possibilities.

The authorities are asking for witnesses…revealing the killer got away. For how long, is the question. I mean, it is the city. Ericson very well could’ve been a victim of a mugging. He also kept company with very unsavory types. Maybe one of them put him down.

Only, that’s not what my instincts are screaming.

Ericson Daverns was at the top of a revenge list of one very dedicated justice dealer.

A thrill courses my system as I imagine her furious and wild, eyes as vibrant as the sea, a harbinger of justice as she attacks. She’s the most beautiful vision like this, so full of passion.

What could drive an individual with shallow affect, with no past violent tendencies, to suddenly lose control and commit murder?

I know the answer—but does she?

Her drive to balance the scales and deliver retribution is a part of her nature. It’s why she chose her occupation. Why she’s so good at reaping vengeance for her clients.

And Ericson Daverns was unfinished business.

But then there’s the darker side of her nature, the part of Blakely that enjoyed causing pain, suffering. It’s why she wanted to take the job to the extreme to truly make Ericson suffer for his sins.

Oh, Blakely, what has my little monster done?

I pull back a section of bandage and examine the burned flesh of my hand. Damaged but my body is already generating new cells to heal the skin. We adapt. We recover. We grow stronger.

Blakely is like those damaged cells; her brain generating new growth to repair and replace the scorched memories. Coding over the old data, learning and adapting to her new emotions.

I did not fail. I knew I could not fail…not with her.

The treatment is a success.

Pulling my desk drawer open, I remove the one object I was able to save from the fire before it took the cabin. The journal of subject 6. I page through the entries to find the drawing of Blakely I sketched in the park.

My fingers trace her features reverently. The hard expression she wore when she believed no one was watching. The delicate curve of her lips, the way she bit her lip so enticingly.