by Trisha Wolfe
I stand a distance away from the door. “I’ll double the payment and wire it to your account.”
He laughs. “Guess you’re not going to spend it when you’re dead.” He sends the package through.
I grab the package and hold it behind my back. I can feel the contents.
“If you ask me…waste of money. Could’ve just got it from the infirmary.” He continues to mumble to himself as he walks off.
As soon as the lights dim, I unwrap the paper bag packaging. A small baggie within holds three large, white pills. I read the imprint with a smile. Penicillin.
Bringing the meds along for the ride won’t be easy. I open the empty puzzle box and peel back the cardboard along the side, then seal the pills inside. I dread knowing where I’ll have to stow the pills when the time comes.
Before I lose the orange glow of the overhead lights, I yank off my thermal and kneel before a handheld mirror propped on the table. I angle my back to see the fresh ink between my shoulder blades.
The outline was the hardest part; making sure the curves align, that the lines are even. I dig out the ink and shiv from the hollow compartment at the base of my cot. Not an easy feat, keeping the guards ignorant of contraband. Only as long as my index finger, the splinter of a bench I picked up in the yard is used as the handle for the thin, sharp prongs I managed to wrangle from the kitchen. Another perk from my gen pop connection.
I use the needle-like points to shade in the black ink. Dip and puncture. Repeat. It’s a tedious process, but the results are worth the effort. I envision her hand—the ink that she tries so hard to conceal—as I close in the negative space.
Then after tiresome repetition, the most vital element is layered within the shading. I can’t bring the model with me, but I can take the measurements and specs. The formula. All the critical details needed to be planned ahead. Supplies. Check list of items. Plan of execution.
And the most fundamental of all: London.
Without her, this will fail.
My hand trembles, anticipation fueling my adrenaline.
London claims I’m incapable of feeling—that I’m a psychopath with no empathy.
I don’t disagree with her assessment.
There are different types of psychopaths, however. And what she fails to acknowledge—like so many of her colleagues—is that a disempathetic type can and does exist.
I’m the proof.
“Constricted circle of empathy” is how it’s defined, but easiest understood in comparison to a dead tree. Imagine if the tree had every limb severed. This tree has been in the dark all its life, slowly dying, decaying, until the sun shines down on it and a tiny sprig bursts free. The stem reaches for the light, growing toward the only sunshine its ever known.
One living limb on an otherwise dead tree.
London is the sunlight, and that new limb the feelings I’m only able to feel for her.
Love is difficult for my kind, but not impossible.
With every break of my skin, every stain that inks my flesh, I go against the grain of my nature to prove this to her. Like so many untraveled highways, the love and empathy road has been an infrequent path for the neurons in my mind. If you don’t nurture a thing, it dies. I was born with the ability, like every other human is born with the ability to feel, empathize, love—only I was never required to exercise these emotions. They’re weak and neglected.
Idle hands are the devil’s playground…and all that entails.
I smile to myself.
Then there was her. Synapses fired, awakening a forgotten, dormant road. I’ve never felt any connection to a single person…
Until her.
I covet this rarity. Anxious to nurture this dark little seed she planted in my soul. My own design of love may be a twisted creature, but that creature is hungry and demands to be fed.
13
Lay Bare
London
I’ve unpacked every skirt from my suitcase. A pile of black and gray slacks litter my bed as I try to unearth a wardrobe that won’t tempt me, or Grayson, to think about today’s session.
A mock laugh falls from my lips. I toss a pair of old slacks into the open luggage. Session. So that’s what I’m calling it. Allowing a patient—a very sick patient—to maul me in my therapy room.
I zip the case closed with a curse.
I’ve been attracted to patients before. As I admitted to Sadie, I’ve dealt with transference plenty…but never at this level. Never with this much intensity and temptation. And I have never submitted to those temptations; never allowed to happen what transpired in my office today.
I close my eyes and fall to the bed. My skin still tingles, still feels heated from his touch. I was more than tempted to stay lost in that moment of ecstasy, to risk too much…and that’s the danger. That’s why I’m leaving early for New Castle. To put six-hundred miles between us and get this trial over with.
My cell vibrates on my nightstand.
I frown at the phone before I roll over and grab it. “Dr. London Noble.”
“Yes, Dr. Noble. This is Attorney General Richard Shafer. Do you have a moment to talk?”
I sit up. “I do, yes. How can I help you, Mr. Shafer?”
“I just wanted to extend the proverbial welcome mat, and make sure you received the material I had my office forward you.”
I clear my bangs from my eyes. “Thank you. I did, though I didn’t realize you’d be heading up the prosecution yourself.” My laptop rests at the foot of the bed. I pull it toward me and flip the screen open.
Honestly, between completing Grayson’s evaluation and our sessions, I have not looked at the evidence. Another psychologist would argue I’m subconsciously avoiding, unable to cope with the probable outcome, and that could be true.
As the Attorney General proceeds to elaborate on why he’s heading up this case personally, I look over the evidence. They have their own expert witness; a local therapist specializing in the criminally insane, who is testifying that Grayson will be a danger in prison. To himself, and to others.
I scoff.
“I’m sorry?” Mr. Shafer interjects.
“I appreciate your convictions in this case,” I recover, “but having expert testimony attest that Grayson Sullivan will be a dangerous incarceration? Mr. Shafer, with all due respect, he’s spent over a year in prison with no disciplinary write-ups. He’s been a model inmate.”
The lawyer clears his throat. “Yes, a model inmate…in solitary confinement. With no interaction with other prisoners. New Castle Penitentiary doesn’t have the funding that Maine has, I’m afraid, to provide Sullivan with the kind of monitoring he requires.” A beat. “You’re the chief psychologist in your field. Your opinion is testament in trial murder cases…”
My back tenses. Be wary of people who compliment too soon, before they even know you—they’re lowering your defenses in preparation for the strike.
“And it was you who proclaimed that one cannot prove rehabilitation without first testing a subject in an unregulated environment.”
And there it is. He’s done his homework.
“So you can appreciate the state’s hesitancy here. Sullivan is simply too untested, too much of a risk.” He releases an audible breath. “And then there are the families, Dr. Noble.”
“What about them?”
“Did you know that the Supreme Court only just recently overturned the ruling to have capital punishment banished in Delaware? Primarily in anticipation of this case. That speaks volumes, doctor.”
“It speaks to fear and ignorance, Mr. Shafer. Sullivan is not, in my professional opinion, a threat to anyone on the inside. That structured environment lacks the chaos he desires to stabilize in the world.”
There’s a lengthy pause before he continues. “As a psychologist, I’m sure you understand the need for closure. These families deserve and need that closure.”
He’s set in his views. Nothing I say now or on the stand will change that. “I have
the deepest sympathy for the families. I always strive to convey that during trials.”
“But this is your final stance.”
I square my shoulders. “It is. I would be doing a disservice to my profession, otherwise.”
“I understand. Well, thank you for your time, Dr. Noble. Safe travels.”
The line clicks dead, ending the call.
I set my phone aside and glance at the manila folder that holds Grayson’s evaluation.
Regardless of my personal feelings, professionally speaking, having a patient put on death row is a heavy burden for any doctor to bear. The weight of Grayson’s trial rests on my shoulders, his life hangs in the balance. This second attempt to sway me by the prosecution proves that.
With the Attorney General personally seeing that Grayson is put to death for his crimes, the scales of justice won’t tip favorably for him.
I open the folder and start my revision. My fear of loving a man capable of such atrocities can’t stand in the way of what I inherently believe is right.
Soon, Grayson will be incarcerated far away from me. I’ll never see nor speak to him again. What is there to fear?
The sounds of my nightmares come to life as I enter Cotsworth Correctional Facility. I stand before a barred door as a guard sweeps a handheld metal detector over my body.
“Clear.”
He steps aside, and a loud buzz precedes the clang of the door mechanism unlocking. The door slides open, and I force my feet forward, propelling myself into the prison. I tuck my folder under my arm, thankful that this section of the facility isn’t near the general population, where the catcalls used to welcome me.
I’ve requested a private session with my patient before his trial. The warden had no qualms in granting me that privileged access.
I’m led to another barred door, where a second guard swipes a keycard to gain entry. The door opens to reveal Grayson on the other side. My heart leaps to my throat, the whoosh that fills my ears momentarily disorienting.
I wasn’t expecting him to be here already. I wanted more time to…prepare. I step inside the room and turn to the guard. “I won’t be needing you. Thank you.”
He gives me a disdainful look, then glares at Grayson. “I’m required to be within seven feet of him at all times. I’ll be posted right outside this door.” The guard adjusts his belt, making a production of arranging the Taser he has at the ready.
Once we’re alone, the door closed, barring us together, I face my patient. Within the heavily guarded confines of this room, he’s not mandated to be shackled to a restraint bench, but his ankles and wrists are cuffed and chained. He’s seated in the center, his hands hung between his legs. Watching me.
The space between us feels tenuous, the air too thin, the distance too easy to close.
“There are no cameras here,” he says. “No one watching. If you thought that would keep you safe from me.”
I lay the folder on the table, the only shield I have. “I know we’re alone. I requested as much. But being here…I’m held more accountable for my actions.”
He smiles. “Didn’t take long for the guilt to set in. Huh, baby?”
I adjust my glasses, ignoring his baiting comment. “I’ve come to see you today, not as a doctor, not for our last session, but as a woman to tell you that this—whatever this is between us—is over. It got out of hand, and maybe that’s my… No, I’m the professional. The fault lies only with me. I was unethical, and what happened yesterday…it was inappropriate.”
His smile stretches, meeting his cool blue eyes. “Inappropriate? I hardly think that expresses it. It was fucking shattering. You want romance, go find yourself a nice little do-boy. But you don’t want that—I tasted what you crave. I can feel it in you now. That dark obsession that twists you, makes you mine. ”
I brace my hands on the edge of the table. Loving him will send me right over sanity’s edge. I have to be free of this, of him.
“At the trial, I’m going to advocate for clemency, Grayson. Taking into account the abuse you likely suffered as a child, along with the conditions of your upbringing, you had an ideal—that is textbook—environment for the development of a psychotic disorder.”
“Is that your professional or personal opinion?”
“Both. With the proper medication and counseling, you may be able to assimilate a normal life.”
“A normal life…behind bars.”
“Of course.”
“That’s downright sadistic. And you claim you’re nothing like me. Why don’t you neuter me in the process? That would be less cruel, and far less torturous.”
“I’m not sure what else you want from me. That’s all I have to offer in way of helping you.”
“I want you. You’re my doctor. So be my fucking doctor.”
“That’s not possible. I’m only here as a courtesy before trial. After my testimony, you’ll never see me again.”
He bounds to his feet. My reaction is delayed, recalling too late that he’s not completely restrained. I step backward as he moves toward me.
“Grayson, this is over.” I hold up my hands. The ankle shackles slow his advance, but don’t stop him.
“It’s never over.” He positions himself between the door and me. “For this to be over, one of us has to die.”
Fear snatches my breath. “Let me leave.”
“We both can’t carry your secret around, London. That is, unless we can work through it during our sessions.” He traces his knuckles down the curve of my breast.
“What are you talking about?” I have to angle my head back to meet his eyes. The closer he gets, the smaller I feel in comparison.
He cages me in against the wall. “It might be difficult for small towns to be open-minded enough, to be objectionable about one of their own. No one wants to think a killer hides among them.”
My back flattens against the brick as he towers over me.
“But you knew the truth, and you did what you’re so good at doing. You lied. You’ve been lying ever since. Even to yourself.”
I swallow. “I’m going to scream.”
“Go ahead,” he dares. “I’ll snag the first reporter interview I can to announce that your father was a monster that you put down.”
The air in the room is sucked out. The florescent lights flicker and buzz, my breaths too loud as I gasp past my constricted lungs.
He licks his lips, his body pressed close to mine. “The puzzle pieces were all there…they just needed to be linked together.”
“You’re mad. You’re delusional. You’ve built an alternate reality around me that is as far from the truth—”
His lips capture mine, silencing me. The kiss is hard and carnal and raw. I moan into him before I brace my palms high on his chest and push, breaking away.
“I wanted to taste the lie on your lips,” he says. “Tastes bitter. Nothing like that sweetness I experienced yesterday.” Then he backs farther away, allowing me to breathe and straighten my blouse.
He takes his seat again, his gaze never leaving my face. “All those missing girls. Did you see them? Witness their torture? How long were you a part of it before you decided to kill your father?”
The walls of the white room waver in the corner of my vision. Red seams the edges. I seal my eyes closed. The ink on my hand burns. I cup my palm, rub at the searing flesh. “Three months.”
A sense of relief crashes over me with the admission. The pressure in my head eases a fraction. I open my eyes. I expect to see the arrogance on Grayson’s face, having stripped me down to my black and tarred marrow, but he’s somber. Looking at me with a frightening wonder in his eyes.
“Lucky for you the coroner was a drunk. Couldn’t tell the difference between peri- and postmortem injuries. That car crash didn’t kill your father. He was already dead when you decided to take out a tree.”
I glance at the door, anxious. “Nothing you have is fact.”
“It doesn’t need to be. The speculation alon
e will be enough to destroy you.”
He’s right. An investigation into my father now, with advanced technology and police procedures, may prove that he was the Hollows Reaper. A bogyman rumored to have stolen young girls in the middle of the night. What mothers told their daughters to keep them from roaming town.
“What did he do with the bodies?”
“What did you do with the bodies?” I counter.
A brutal smile slants his face. “I buried them, of course.”
My hands tremble. My family home is still in my name. I kept an abandoned house with a dead garden and barren cornfield. Rotting down to the foundation. I own the deed to a graveyard.
“You should tell the families where their loved ones are located, Grayson. The court would be more prone to clemency if you did.”
He cranes an eyebrow. “I will if you will.”
I push off the wall. Shove my hands in my hair. “This is crazy. I won’t be threatened.”
“Where are you going?”
“I’m leaving.”
“No. We’re not done.” His features harden. “Come here, London.”
All I have to do is bang on the door. I glance between Grayson and the door, and fear riots through me. How big of a disaster could Grayson create out of my life?
I walk toward him slowly. “Turning my life into a media circus would get you off, wouldn’t it?”
“It’s tempting—” he grabs my waist and hauls me to him “but I have bigger things in mind.”
“Let go—” I wriggle off his lap.
“I need to know how you felt,” he whispers. “In that moment. When you killed him…how did it feel? What did you use?”
Stunned, I stare down at him. “You’re a monster.”
“I’m your monster. Tell me, and you’ll own me. Completely.” He strokes the side of my hand. The rattle of his chains forces my eyes closed. Memories awakened. “You want to tell me.”
My body tense, he expertly guides the confession forth. My mind clicks off, like a switch he can toggle at will, and I allow him to pull me down against him. I straddle the man who threatens everything. My freedom. My morality. My sanity.