[ Highest Rank #101 in Mystery/Thriller ]
Time has passed. Things have changed. Isabeth, Benny, and Faith aren't quite the same. They have blood on their hands, a code they honor, and secrets they keep locked away. The Psychopath Maker knows this an...
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Beep. Beep. Beep. Isabeth listened to the heart monitor displaying Alex's robust heartbeat. She freely gave herself over to her mind as she watched the TV, Mennie Lewis jabbering away in front of Concord Memorial Hospital. Who was the person Yellman spoke of? One thing Isabeth was sure of was she wasn't it.
The man that had an unnatural infatuation with her was no more. Isabeth played fragments of the night over in her head. It had to be Harper or Faith. Faith, she thought. It had to be Faith! Egan. Who was this stranger?
"Umm." Alex moaned moving his head as it lay on a stack of pancake flat pillows.
Isabeth walked to his bed. She subtly smiled leaning over the bed rail. "How do you feel?" She stroked his black product-free mane.
"Where..." Alex coughed pulling struggling to pull himself up. "Am I?" His eyelids crept up, heavy from mammoth dose of diazepam shot into his vein.
"You're in the hospital," Isabeth removed a piece of lint from his eyebrow. Alex coughed. "Water." She reached back grabbing the salmon pitcher on the tray. She bent the stray placing it between his puckered lips. His Adam's apple bobbed up and down as he pulled in a long swallow of icy water. "You had a panic attack."
Alex pushed up his aching body. He threw his head back on the bounds of pillows as a sharp pinch stabbed in the bone of his hand. He raised his hand up; a clear cord dangled. "An IV. Really?"
"You collapsed. Stopped breathing. It could've been in your neck." Isabeth sat the pitcher on the tray and slid it back. "That's what happens when you stop taking your medicine."
"I don't need a lecture." He fiddled with the paper-thin sheet. "I'm sure Malachi will be in here to give me one."
"Maybe after he finishes paying your bail."
"I'm on bail!" He struggled to fully open his eyes.
"You're not handcuffed to the bed." Isabeth held back the curtain shielding the glass door. "See, no police outside your door." She released the curtain
"How much?"
"Does it matter?"
"The higher the bail, the guiltier you are perceived."
"Guilt does not factor into bail. Now, wealth an access to say—private planes does; that's way Judge Murdock sat it at..." Isabeth rubbed the smooth-tight skin of her neck, staring up at the tiles of the ceiling. "A million."
"Shit!" Alex sat straight up. "I'm going to jail."
"You're not." She pushed him back on his pillows. "Stop racing off the cliff. This is America. You're innocent until proven guilty. You hear that, INNOCENT." She softly held his face.
Alex wrapped his hand around her petite wrist, "Mental cases don't get that privilege." He pulled her hands from his face. "Plus, he had pictures."
"Pictures." She walked around the bed, "What kind of pictures."
