“So he’s visited her a few times. The last was a couple of weeks ago," Mila says, her eyes still trained on the visitors’ log.
As she does, something catches her attention, and she takes a step toward the wall.
“The body at Willowbend…” Her voice is pensive. “I don’t think it was my mother. I think it was Trow. He might have become a copycat killer. Maybe that’s what’s in those letters. That could even be what they talked about during their visits. Look at these dates. My mother was still in jail during these. Could she be tracking Trow’s kills as part of her own work?”
If I’ve learned anything in the last few hours, it’s that anything is possible when dealing with Sveta Markov.
“Shit. That’s not just participating in a jailbreak. He’s a person of interest in a murder.” I send texts to a few of my team leaders for both the RCMP and FUC, letting them know they need to be on alert for a man of Trow's description.
Armed, dangerous, and definitely to be arrested on sight.
"I still need to understand how she was able to escape,” Mila asks while I’m penning the last note to our field teams. “It’s one thing to be in contact with a crazed fan, but it’s another thing to bail out of prison.”
"Well”—Carlyle sighs—“she disappeared from the hospital wing. She flew out of an infirmary window using her bat shape. This can only mean that she found a way to stop taking the anti-shifting serum.”
“Or it wasn’t administered properly.” My tone is clipped because I seriously doubt this man’s capabilities. There is no way I’m letting Markov get put back here. It’s a FUC prison for her.
Carlyle sputters, but I ignore him.
"In the security footage, she can be seen getting into a truck." I direct my words to Mila. "It would only make sense that Trow was the driver. We won't know for sure until we apprehend them, but it's a valid guess."
"It tracks," Mila agrees. "Any way of knowing if he's a shifter? I didn’t think to ask Jessie to check. I should have paid more attention to this website."
“No, don’t do that,” I say, reading through the barrage of messages flooding my phone since putting out an APB on Trow but a few moments ago.
"He doesn't seem to have a record, so there's no way of knowing for sure," I answer. "There's an all-points bulletin out for Trow now. Director Cooper has someone checking into his background to see if he is a shifter.”
Carlyle’s tablet dings with a notification. “Oh. I need to see to this. I'll leave you to it and go back to my office. There's a lot to deal with because of this escape." He gestures to his device as if that explained it all.
Mila shoots him a warning glare, and he clamps his mouth shut.
“If you have any questions, please let me know,” the warden adds before turning on his heels.
His footsteps echo down the hall before Mila lets out the breath she’s been holding. Her tough exterior cracks a bit, and her hands go to her mouth. She shakes her head in complete disbelief.
"This is… I can’t quite believe what I’m seeing. This doesn’t look like her space. She was always such a clean freak. If I didn’t recognize her handwriting, I would say that this isn’t her cell," she whispers.
She isn't wrong. From what I’ve learned of Markov from reading Mila’s book, she kept very clinical notes, and she was known to be methodical. There seems to be no method to this particular brand of madness.
“There is clearly something even more deranged about her,” Mila whispers. “And that’s saying something.
"She isn't well. She might actually be worse off than she was before," Mila goes on, taking a sheet down from the wall.
As she continues to pluck notes off the wall, I go to the metal locker at the foot of the bed. Thankfully, Carlyle has already had his men unlock the compartment.
I flip the lid up and immediately cover my mouth as a foul stench assaults my nostrils.
"What is it?" Mila asks, taking a step toward me in the small cell.
"You don't want to see this, Mila."
She narrows her eyes at me, stepping around me to look in the locker.
"Those are vials of blood." Her voice breaks on the words as she begins to comprehend just how badly her mother's state has worsened. "Those are a lot of vials of blood."
Using a latex glove she produces from her messenger bag, Mila wraps a few vials into tissues and slides them carefully into her bag. Some have cracked and spilled, explaining the vile odor.
"I'm going to tests these," she says. "We need to know if she is taking blood from herself, other inmates, or both.
"That hardly sounds sanitary or clinically sound."
Mila points to the writing on the walls. "I don't think she's too concerned about being clinically sound anymore. Something is clearly wrong with her. Look at her handwriting. It’s barely legible. That isn’t her. And this?” Mila points to red ink splotches on some of the notes. “That’s blood. I can smell it.” Mila gasps. “Steaming bloodbag!” She rushes to the wall, barely touching it with the tips of her fingers. “I think I know what it is.”
“What could be compounding her past afflictions?” Because, really, how much worse can things get?
“I think she has the Foamies.” Her tone is serious and her face grave, but the word she’s just used doesn’t track.
“I hate to ask…What the fuck are the Foamies? Sounds like a bath product for children.”
“It’s not good,” Mila answers, shivering as she backs away from the wall. “It's the vampire bat shifter version of rabies, and it's a very dangerous affliction. It’s pretty rare but more common in older bats who don’t digest enough blood. It basically attacks the brain, breaking down the protective mucus around the organ. As it gets worse, hallucinations and delusions get increasingly worse until the person dies
