Fallen Angel
He knew the craving for vengeance, and therefore, should have known to be wary, watchful.
But he died.
No.
No one ever really dies at the Centre, Jarod. You knew it. You should have known!
The phone's shrill ring signaled trouble. "I know something you don't know." The voice sang, taunted, would forever haunt him.
"Alex." Jarod snarled.
"I always win."
"If it's a game, play fair and tell me the rules."
"The rules..." Came that maniacal cackle, the sound of knife on bench stone. Scraping. Grating. "The rules are simple: I always win, Jarod. Had you phoned Miss Parker, you'd know that."
"Where is she?"
"Front porch. I'd tell you to send a coroner, but.." Alex scoffed. "You are a coroner. Or you can be."
"No!"
More laughter. Dial tone. Trembling fingers dialed a number. Sydney picked up. "Jarod, I'm sorry.."
"No. No. No!"
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." The broken Pretender sobbed as he cradled her lifeless body. A shot to the head. Quick. Like Thomas, she hadn't suffered, but then, her suffering hadn't been the goal.
The Centre knew that a broken Pretender would be a pliable Pretender. The Triumvirate smiled down on Lyle, their rising star.
"It's time to come home, Jarod."
This time, he didn't resist.