Chapter 6

Julius ate his breakfast with the black woolen cap pulled low over his forehead. He was so hungry he'd had to stop for food. He'd needed gas anyway, so he'd risked it.

The cap disguised his features and the color of his hair, not to mention his disastrous prison haircut. The wool was itchy against his scalp, but warm, and that was pretty much all he cared about right now. Luxuries like cashmere could wait. With this snowstorm, no one noticed that he wore a hat inside. He stared out the window at the gas station across the road but also watched the TV screen and other people inside the diner via the reflection in the glass, to make sure no one was paying him undue attention.

They weren't.

It was predawn early. News of the prisoner escape hadn't hit the airwaves yet, but the US Marshals would be searching for any sign he was alive.

Sweat made his new T-shirt cling to his back, but he sipped his drink slowly, determined to enjoy every second of freedom, every minute of independence.

The food here might not be the finest cuisine, but it tasted wonderful. Crispy bacon. Buttery scrambled eggs. Homemade waffles and hot, freshly brewed coffee.

He raised his hand to indicate he was ready for the bill. He kept a pleasant smile on his face, which defied his naturally downturned features and changed his appearance considerably. He'd spent a lot of time practicing in front of what passed for a mirror in his cell. Seven years smiling at his blurred reflection, wishing he was anywhere but incarcerated in that godforsaken place.

And now he was free.

He took out enough cash from his newly acquired wallet to cover the bill and provide a decent tip, but not enough to be memorable. He drew the borrowed leather jacket together and zipped it up against the chill.

Over the years, he'd thought a lot about what he'd do if he ever got out of prison, how he'd blend in and not put a glowing sign on his forehead that screamed "helpless billionaire." He hoped he'd grasped how not to stand out—definitely a plus inside the big house. How not to be the freak everyone called him. He'd dreamed of escape, planned for it a little, but he'd never truly expected it. He wasn't about to let this opportunity slip through his fingers.

He slid out of the booth. "Thanks."

He'd always been good with his manners. His nanny had taught him that. He headed out the door. He'd parked around the side of the diner. Out of sight.

He climbed into the small sedan, moving stiffly in the aftermath of the accident. The blue jeans felt rough against his skin. It was the first time in his life he'd worn cheap denim, and he wasn't sure whether he liked it or not. However, the jeans were a massive improvement on his terrible orange jumpsuit that was still in the trunk of the sedan along with the prison guard's uniform. He'd get rid of them at the first opportunity.

He turned the key in the ignition and listened to the engine fire up. Smiled. Open-top sports cars on the French Riviera had been more his style than this nondescript gray sedan. But the sedan might help hide him, whereas a fancy sports car would definitely get him caught.

Again.

He had to blend in. His life depended on it because he wasn't going back to that hellhole.

He looked at the full fuel gauge and felt a surge of pride that he'd managed to fill the car without looking like a total buffoon. He'd paid for gas with some of the little cash he had on his person, but it was worth it. He'd get more. It was already being organized. He'd used the previous owner's phone to make a few calls—ones that he hoped wouldn't get him thrown back in his cell.

The windshield was coated in a thin layer of frozen condensation, so he waited patiently for the engine to warm and the heater to defrost the glass. Cops could stop people if their windows weren't clear, and he didn't want to give them an excuse.

Failure to think things through had often been written on his report cards at school, but as Julius was the only person to read them after his mother and father had murdered one another, he hadn't worried too much. He was filthy rich. Rich people got away with crazy shit every damned day. However, he'd never planned to become a killer. The first time had been almost by accident. The rush had been unlike anything he'd ever experienced before. It had been better than drugs. Better than getting drunk on the most expensive Champagne.

So, he'd done it again, only better next time. Planned. Executed. To people who'd deserved it.

Oh, the euphoria as he'd taken their lives. The power… The supremacy… He could still feel echoes of it in his blood.

Killing the guy whose car he'd taken hadn't given him that rush. That death hadn't been punishment. It had been a logistical necessity, and the guy hadn't deserved it.

There were plenty of others who did deserve payback. Three in particular.

He thought about the people who'd written to him over the years. Women mostly, but some men. Several had visited which had provided a nice break from the endless monotony, but could he trust them?

What drove a person to visit a stranger, a convicted murderer, within the walls of a maximum-security prison? It wasn't something he'd ever considered doing…he certainly had never expected to be an inmate of such a place.

Some of his visitors were lonely individuals whom Julius almost pitied. Many were fascinated by his crimes—reporters, authors, podcasters. Others felt the same kind of urges as he did though neither he nor they admitted to them out loud—he'd seen the excitement lighting their eyes when they asked him questions. Those were his favorite visitors. When they realized that he saw them. They were either terrified or excited. Or both.

For the occasional daring would-be swindler, it was about his money—after all he had no living family and billions in the bank. Most of them only visited once, the effort outweighing the reward when it became obvious Julius was no fool where his fortune was concerned and more than capable of freaking them out for fun.

He'd willed some of his assets to various charities, including the Boston PD's retirement fund—more out of a twisted sense of humor than anything else. He'd wanted to start a scholarship at Yale or Harvard or MIT, but each institution had insisted no one could know where the money came from.

Bah.

Julius wanted people to know he was capable of good as well as bad. He didn't expect his philanthropy to affect his chances of release, but he wasn't a cardboard cutout of a scary monster. He was complex and interesting. He was a killer, but he wasn't indiscriminate or a bully. He could be kind too. He could be a friend.

He actually had friends.

He covered a yawn. The heater was taking forever to warm up, but the glass was slowly clearing of ice crystals.

How would those same visitors feel when they learned he was free of that cage? Would they smile as openly without the protection of armed guards if he turned up on their doorstep? Would they trust him? Could he trust them?

Probably not.

The desire to unleash his base appetites was growing in the back of his mind. Rearing up like a black cloud from a volcano in a prelude to an eruption.

Which made his current freedom so utterly divine.

He hadn't figured out quite what he wanted to do with this opportunity yet. Escape, definitely. Live in luxury and enjoy his money—that would be nice. Buy a new face or simply find a place that had everything he needed so he never had to leave, and the authorities couldn't touch him. Some island somewhere… That sounded a lot like another prison, albeit a prettier one.

He and his personal assistant, Blake Delaware, who managed his affairs, had spent time discussing the idea over the years, during their biweekly visits. Not discussing breaking out, but…imagining what he'd need to disappear if he was magically "released."

Contingencies had been made.

The smartest plan right now was for Julius to lie low and slip quietly away when the furor died down.

Why then was he headed toward Boston?

Stupidity most likely, but he had his pride. People had said things during his trial and afterward. Things Julius didn't like. Things that weren't true. And now there were debts to pay—Hope Harper's chief amongst them.

She owed him.

The heater finally finished clearing the windshield, so he pulled onto the road, grateful that the man he'd borrowed the car from had been so well prepared for winter. Added bonus, the guy was about Julius's size and traveled with a whole suitcase full of clothing and personal hygiene products. Fate was truly looking out for him.

About damned time.

Julius tried to relax his grip on the wheel. It was a long time since he'd driven in snow, and he couldn't risk hitting anyone or going off the road. The car had sturdy snow tires and was an automatic, but it was nerve-racking especially so soon after the accident that had set him free. As long as Julius didn't slam on the brakes, he should get where he needed to go. Not that far now. Another thirty minutes or so at most.

And then he'd know.

Whom to trust.

And whom he had to kill.