Malcolm realized he broke his promise the second Owen Shannon parked across the street from a simple two-story house in the middle of the block. A swirl of guilt rolled through his already queasy belly as he stared through the window at what was the last physical known address of Paul Lazar.

No, not Paul Lazar, he mentally corrected as Shannon cut the engine and sat back to stare out the dirty windshield. John Watkins. The name of the man who spent the last few weeks tormenting him was John Watkins.

The name seared itself into his brain.

Why?

Because it represented the man who partnered with the Surgeon to torture and kill an unknown amount of victims. A man who changed his modus operandi once their partnership ended.

Or did he?

That thought played through Malcolm's mind as he studied the place where Watkins might still call home. Had Watkins changed how he killed people after the Surgeon was arrested or did his father use Watkins to hide his own?

Shannon said he believed his father had a cleanup guy. Someone who got rid of the bodies. Was that what Watkins did? Or was there more to their partnership than that?

Exactly what Watkins got from a partnership with his father, Malcolm didn't know. The same, he realized, brow furrowing, could be said for his father. Outside of having someone to control, feed his already overinflated ego, and potentially use to get rid of bodies, there was little benefit to a partnership between him and John Watkins.

So, why then had Martin Whitly worked with him?

What about John Watkins convinced his father to take him under his tutelage?

To teach him the tricks of the trade?

How long had they been working together?

"Thinking about why your old man partnered with someone so far beneath him socially?"

"It doesn't make any sense." Malcolm continued staring at the house, mind churning, gut twisting. "The risk of being discovered was exponentially higher working with Watkins than it was for my father to work alone. Why chance discovery? Especially when he went to great lengths to make sure I couldn't remember what he did."

Creating huge gaps in his memory in the process. He didn't need to add that part. He'd already told Shannon about his fragments of memories when the man confronted him hours ago. That's two promises broken, he realized with a pang. May as well go for number three at this point.

"Martin Whitly believed he could talk his way out of what he did."

"Like all killers."

"Your dad thought his status as a world-class surgeon and your mom's money would buy his way out of prison."

"Which," Malcolm admitted with a pained sigh, "it did."

Thanks to a high priced defense attorney his mother called The Devil.

"Considering he's sitting in a plush cell in Claremont Psychiatric Hospital rather than Attica."

Shannon didn't need to add, where he belongs. It was an unspoken agreement between them that Martin Whitly didn't deserve to live the privileged life he did at Claremont.

"His lawyer pled mental disease and defect and got him mandated to Claremont."

Where he'd spend the rest of his life in quiet comfort, consulting on cases, and pursuing what other interests he chose. It's not fair, Malcolm realized as a car pulled into the driveway three doors down and a couple of teenagers in Santa hats climbed out. Countless lives affected by his decisions and the only ones paying for them were people like Owen Shannon.

Ainsley called him a victim while filming her interview. Part of Malcolm, the rational part, knew she was right. However, the other part of him believed he deserved what happened to him. Had he called the cops on his father sooner...

"We need to get this Watkins fella." Shannon's fingers curled atop the steering wheel, hard enough Malcolm heard the knuckles pop. "He's the only one who can tell us if there are more bodies than originally discovered."

"You believed there were more." Malcolm looked down at his hands, folded neatly in his lap to conceal the tremor that only stopped while they were working through that list in Ian Turner's storage locker. "More than are known about, anyway."

How many more was anybody's guess.

"Oh, there's more," Shannon growled softly. "I never believed the final number of victims was twenty-three. There were too many missing that could be attributed to the Surgeon."

"And knowing now that my father was working with Watkins..." His hand shook so hard he was sure Shannon heard the bones rattling against each other. "There's no knowing how many bodies there actually are."

Or which one killed them.

"I always believed the rest were buried where we couldn't find 'em."

"Like inside an auto wreckers."

"Right." Shannon voice was tight with anger. "The brass didn't want to hear it, though. They shut the case down with your dad's arrest and that was the end of it."

The case being closed sent the ex-detective down a dark and bitter path of depression and alcoholism. Shannon lost everything with Martin Whitly's arrest: his career, his reputation, and finally, his partner. For twenty-years, Owen Shannon lived with that hole in his gut, believing there were other victims out there, and not having anyone — so he thought — believe him.

And now Ian Turner's dead because he almost figured out the Junkyard Killer was the Surgeon's accomplice and cleared Shannon's name.

Another person paying for the crimes that John Watkins and Martin Whitly committed.

"If we can find a victim not linked to the original twenty-three..."

"Your father could be retried and sent upstate." Shannon slanted a look at him. "Where he belongs."

His voice throbbed with the satisfaction he'd get from seeing Martin Whitly put in a prison cell.

His face shone with an almost maniacal glee at the thought of finally, finally bringing the Surgeon down.

Of proving beyond a shadow of a doubt that he had been right all along about the Surgeon having an accomplice.

Malcolm could understand his feelings. The Surgeon had been his case. One he worked diligently for months. Then he called the police to report his father was a murderer. Gil getting dispatched to their house to answer the call had been a stroke of luck — good or bad, Malcolm couldn't say.

It was the final blow. The ultimate humiliation for a veteran detective like Owen Shannon. Losing the biggest collar of his career to a beat cop answering what was suspected was nothing more than a prank call made by some spoiled rich kid.

However, Malcolm couldn't deny a small part of himself that didn't want to see his father transferred from Claremont Psychiatric. As toxic as his relationship with Martin Whitly was, he was still his father. He didn't want to lose what little contact with him he had.

He just couldn't explain why.

Much as a part of him loved Martin Whitly, another loathed him.

"We're the same," his father said, his smile that warm and loving one he always had. "Never forget that, my boy. We're the same."

"I know this must be hard for you," he heard Shannon say through the fog trying to wrap itself around him. "Being he's your father and all."

"He hurt a lot of people." Malcolm wet his lips with the tip of his tongue. "They deserve justice. Real justice."

"So do you, kid."

Those words sent shock waves through Malcolm.

"What?" He blinked rapidly. "But I thought..."

"That I believed you were his accomplice? Yeah, I did." Shannon's face twisted into a faint grimace. "I admit I may have been wrong. That I rushed to judgement because of something Martin Whitly said. I never took into account what he might have been doing to you. Didn't even occur to me that you might have been a victim."

"I'm not..."

"A victim?" Shannon's lips screwed up at one corner. "Keep telling yourself that, kid. One day, you may believe it."

Malcolm wanted to deny it. He did. He just... couldn't. What Shannon said wasn't something he hadn't heard before.

From Gabrielle.

From Gil.

From Ian Corbin.

From Ainsley.

From Sorcha.

"You don't like hearing this," Sorcha said as they stood outside the precinct earlier, "but you're a victim, too."

He wasn't a victim, though.

He wasn't.

Before Malcolm could tell Shannon that, before he could tell him he wasn't one of his father's victims, his phone buzzed. Oh, I wonder who that could be...

His money was on it being Ainsley chastising him for missing dinner. He pulled his phone from his pocket and glanced at the screen. His eyebrows shot up when he saw the message was from Sorcha, not Ainsley.

[Running late] the message read. [Won't be starting home for another hour].

Just as well she was running late, he decided as he typed a quick reply and sent it. He had no idea how long they'd be here.

Or what they might find waiting for them on the other side of the door.

"Girlfriend?"

"Uh, yeah." Malcolm's fingers brushed the velvet box he had yet to give to Sorcha as he slid his phone back into his pocket. "You could say that."

Strange how easy it was for him to admit that to Owen Shannon when he could barely admit it to himself.

"Going to be right pissed you didn't make it home for dinner?"

"No, she's going to be disappointed I didn't keep my promise to her."

"Yeah?" Shannon glanced over at him, one bushy brow raised. "And what promise was that?"

"Not to do anything stupid."

"Like chasing after a serial killer with a washed-up has been?"

"More like chasing after a serial killer who has already shot at me once and tried to crush me in a turnstile."

"Right." Shannon patted his jacket pocket. "Guess we'll just have to be smarter then."

A kernel of unease went through Malcolm as he glanced back at the place where Watkins lived. Something about this seemed... off.

He just couldn't explain what.

The house looked like all the rest lining the block. Nothing about it said a serial killer that liked to crush his victims in an auto-crusher lived there.

"Watkins isn't someone to underestimate," he said quietly. "He's a vengeance killer. Methodical. He kills with intention and pleasure."

Shannon opened his car door and stepped out. "I guess we better hope we get the drop on him before he gets the drop on us."

Malcolm's belly tightened as he exited the car and followed Shannon across the street. Something warned him they were about to enter purgatory.

He found himself in hell, instead.

With John Watkins as his personal tour guide.


A/N: Hello, all! Hope this finds you well!

I just want to send special thanks to Rookblonkorules for their lovely reviews!