by Trisha Wolfe
But the dare in his eyes glints, a challenge to unmask those dark desires lurking beneath my surface. “Which one is your favorite?”
The rules of psychoanalysis are simple: there are no rules. In this safe haven, I can confess my excitement, my arousal at watching the woman be bound and racked until her limbs snapped. But I won’t admit that aloud. I refuse to give in to him.
“That’s our session for today,” I announce. I straighten my skirt as I start toward the hallway, forgetting my proximity to the inmate in my office.
Grayson hasn’t forgotten.
My march toward the other side of the room is thwarted as he grabs hold of my skirt. Every muscle in my body tenses, the hairs on my skin stand, all senses captured by him and his clutch on my skirt.
In an instant, I realize he purposely riled me for this exact outcome.
The rattling of chains heightens my anxiety, then I’m yanked backward. Forced to stand before him, I stare down at where he grips the hem of my skirt, bunching the fabric in a tight fist.
“Release me,” I demand, somehow controlling the tremor in my voice.
His gaze roves deliberately up my body to meet my eyes. “You want to touch my scars.”
The heat of his skin touches my bare thigh, his rough knuckles an abrasive and enticing friction. I swallow. “That would be inappropriate.”
“But you still want to.” He releases the fabric one finger at a time, until I’m free of him. But I’m not. The dare in his eyes still holds me captive. “I want you to.”
We should be like two similar poles of a magnet; we should repel each other. But our magnetic fields attract, snapping together forcefully.
As if he fears I’m a creature to be spooked, he gently rests his hands on my hips, and a shiver rocks me. “But if you do, I get to touch you,” he challenges.
This is more than prohibited. It’s dangerous.
I breathe in deeply, inhaling his masculine scent, torturing myself for what I’m about to do. In spite of my heart pounding in clear warning, I place my hand atop his. I let my palm travel over his rough fingers to his wrist, and on to his arm. Where the beveled scars wrap his flesh. Like wiry bands inserted beneath his skin, the scar tissue is smooth and cruel. Some more recent than others, and the thought of him inflicting the wounds while enraptured in erotic deviancy…
My breath catches as his fingers make contact with my inner thigh.
I shut my eyes against the onslaught of emotions—the illicit and erotic way he makes me feel as his coarse palm grazes up my thigh, my skirt bunching against his wrist.
“Look at me.”
The demand races through my blood, scorching my veins. I open my eyes on impulse.
Grayson’s electric blue gaze holds me imprisoned while his hand brands my skin. He inches upward, the abrasive pads of his fingers exploring, mapping me, as he gauges my response.
A whimper escapes, and I have to bite my lip to hold back another. A muscle jumps along his jaw, then he’s roving higher, torturously slow. I tremble under his intimate touch. The stronger his touch becomes, the more I crave to dig my nails into his flesh. My fingers form claws on his arms.
As if he knows what I’m thinking, he licks his lips and says, “Do it.”
The dare slithers over my body, the pulsing heat between my thighs inviting him to touch me, and as I surrender, his fingers skim the seam of my panties. A shock of awareness snatches my breath and I step back, breaking the connection.
I don’t stop walking until I’m safely behind the yellow line. Grayson’s heated stare tracks me, his chest moving up and down with his uneven breaths. His features strained as if he’s feeling the same suffocating pain that burns my lungs. The room pulsates with each of his breaths, in harmony with the pounding of my heart.
I’m losing my mind.
Flustered, I turn my back to him and run my hands over my skirt as I rush to the office. Within minutes, the officers have Grayson shackled and transported. He didn’t speak, didn’t say a word. Giving no hint to the storm brewing between us.
I stand in the center of my office, feeling the weight of what transpired heavy and pressing. The wood floor shifts beneath my feet. Gravity only needs one slight push to send me spiraling down.
9
Puzzle
Grayson
The buzz signals the cell door closing. I stand with my hands linked behind my back until the guards’ footsteps retreat down the hall. Moving toward my cot, I inhale deeply, taking in the lingering scent of lilac. The flowers dried up. Dead petals frame my puzzles.
I’m patient, but even I have my breaking point.
A year in prison was easier than the torturous seconds spent touching her.
It’s not time.
The lights dim, giving me my regulated privacy. I lift my tongue and dig out the object I lodged there in London’s therapy room. Only two inches in size, the metal catch of her belt buckle wasn’t easy to obtain, but it was an enjoyable challenge.
I smile as I wedge the silver prong beneath a flap of cardboard on my puzzle box. I’m running out of hiding places.
Soon.
I scrape aside puzzle pieces on the table and unfold the ancient article, smooth out the creases. I’ve read it many times already, but each time I do, I get another piece. Just like piecing together my puzzles, London has left little details, tiny clues, for me to uncover and fit together.
Hollows, Mississippi doesn’t exist. But Sullivan’s Hollow does, although it’s not printed on any proper map. I don’t blame her or any of the residents within Mize for wanting to forget the past. New names and new histories. That’s all that’s needed to create a different identity.
How much does she remember? I wonder if she’s completely rewritten it, her memories some distant nightmare she dreamed long ago.
Nine young women from the ages of sixteen to nineteen went missing over the course of twelve years. That might not seem like a lot, but to a small population like Mize, it’s a terrifying thing. Most were chalked up to runaways, the article claims. The teens known to be promiscuous. And in a small town, judgment outweighs truth. It’s easier to swallow. The article is full of suspicion and outdated thinking. They didn’t even have a detective on the case.
But there’s one significant piece that’s niggled me for months. Not what’s in the article, not what’s mentioned…but what’s omitted.
The date the disappearances suddenly stopped.
I tuck the article beneath my most recent puzzle. It’s only half completed, but it’s already revealing so much of the picture. I scrape a jagged piece off the table and twirl it around my fingers, envisioning the golden flecks in her eyes.
She’s been living two lives for far too long. My objective is to tease them apart. Like the puzzle I stare at now, the woman I need hides in the details. She’s buried beneath the lies.
Buried. I like that. And so I uncover the three-dimensional model on the table. I’ve been adding layers for months. It’s a poor substitution for my welding tools and model kits at the house, but I almost appreciate the challenge to create out of practically nothing. Layered paper and formed cardboard. A makeshift trap construction that has yet to be realized.
Like a child playing with a dollhouse, the 3D model allows me to feed my obsession. I tear a corner from one of my puzzle boxes and fold the cardboard into a rectangle. It’s not ideal, but the crude box will do. I slip the little box onto the model with a smile.
It’s only a matter of time until all the pieces align, and the picture is complete.
I recover the model and slide it under the table, then return to the jigsaw puzzle. A portrait of London I skillfully cut to seamlessly align on top of the puzzle. The piece finds its home, easily sliding into place to reveal those eyes that captivate me. I graze my knuckles over London’s features, aroused by the tantalizing feel of the beveled edges of the linked puzzle pieces.
She’s almost complete.
She’s almost mine.
The lights go out, leaving me in my dark void to dream of her until morning.
10
Flight
London
Memories are deceptive.
The way the mind works when recalling the past distorts our reality. Our minds shape and mold a memory every time we look at it, changing subtle details, altering facts. No two people remember past events the same, whether they were both present at the moment or not.
Most people don’t know this, and it can be a frightening realization when they discover the truth.
A married couple continuously arguing the same points, night after night, both adamantly swearing the other is wrong, that they are mistaken.
They’re both right. Their memories are skewed to perceive the world around them in a way that structures and defines who they are and what they believe.
I wrote a paper on this once, back in my first year. Ripe right out of college, I was set on tackling the origins of a murderer’s mind. Was it the nurture—the upbringing and experiences—that created a murderer, or was it how his mind perceived those first impressionable, crucial years that fashioned the killer.
Most would argue that they’re one and the same. There’s no difference between how we recall our past and our actual past—that the outcome, either way, creates a monster.
This is chiefly true. It’s difficult to separate any fact from fiction. So why bother debating theories and nitpicking the particulars?
I was young, and in my youth I bent to the psychology of the masses. I never again thought of my thesis, or how it may pertain to my patients. It was irrelevant for my area of study as I furthered my career with serial killers and their rehabilitation.
And in order to move forward, it was imperative that I stop recalling my own memories of the past. How many times had I gone over the details? How many times had my mind warped those events? Were my memories even real anymore, or just fragments of the truth tangled with my nightmares? Like an old cassette tape being recorded over and over, my memories now play back a garbled, distorted song.
I stuff my hands into my coat pockets and follow the winding trail through the lush garden of the aviary. The birds sing along to the tune in my head, their high-pitched shrieks punctuating the peaks of my anxiety.
I hoped the stroll through one of my favorite places would calm my worries, as I’ve used this escape a lot over the years to quiet my thoughts. But swooping birds overhead grow louder, as if they’re aware of my secret, sharing it with one another in their twitter code.
I huff a soundless laugh at my paranoia. The birds don’t care about me or what I’ve done. I’m losing my mind.
A chill touches my skin, and I release the clip, letting my hair drop and giving my tresses a shake to cover my neck. I’ve recalled the memory of my last session with Grayson too many times now, analyzing it, dissecting it, recollecting the details. The sensations and emotions he evoked. The yearning… And I’m scared that every time I remember, I’m altering what actually occurred.
Our minds are so powerful, constructing connections and feelings to a single occurrence, turning something considerably insignificant into a meaningful moment. Full of passion and elation. When in truth, any colleague looking in would simply derive that countertransference is inhibiting my ability to assert my role as doctor over my patient.
I gave in to Grayson’s wants, and you can never give your patient everything they want—regardless if those desires reflect your own. No, scratch that. Especially when their desires reflect your own.
It’s more than dangerous; it’s unethical.
But the feel of his rough hands on my skin… I shut my eyes, just for a second, allowing the memory to claim me once more before I bury it. I inhale a deep breath full of the cleansing power of the garden, and the evening sky darkens, thunder clouds looming.
The sound of birds has vanished. The sudden stillness of the aviary consumes my senses, and I notice that I’m not alone.
I turn around. “Are you following me, detective…?”
Wearing a black trench coat over a cheap suit, the slightly overweight man is easy to identify as a cop. Being raised by the town sheriff, I have experience in this. His smirk confirms my theory. “Foster. Detective Foster,” he says. “I was just enjoying the scenery. Figured we could talk once we were alone.”
I vaguely recall Lacy mentioning a detective by that name. I wrap my arms around my middle and glance behind him. The aviary will be closing soon. I start toward the exit. “You can say whatever you need to at my office. During business hours.”
“I’ve tried, Dr. Noble. You’re a difficult woman to get in touch with.” As I try to pass, he thrusts a manila folder toward me. “You need to see this.”
Regardless of my understanding of the mind’s tricks, curiosity is still a powerful tool. This detective knows this, and he uses his skill set expertly. I take the folder.
“You’re not the first shrink he’s abused.”
I squint at his word choice, then flip the folder open. When I look down, my breath catches at the base of my throat. I school my features as I assess the image, not allowing the disgust to register on my face.
I flip to the next page and scan the victim’s profile.
“Doctor Mary Jenkins.”
I continue reading over the pages. Why does that name sound familiar?
“A neurologist at Hopkins. She was accused of unethical practices on her patients,” he continues, filling in the blanks. “But never prosecuted.”
My stomach pitches. Unethical practices is blanket terminology that doesn’t convey the accused cruelties levied against her. The details come back to me of a Maryland neuroscientist who resurrected the barbaric practice of lobotomy.
The images of the deceased Dr. Jenkins capture the gruesomeness of the procedure. Puncture wounds dotting above her eyelids denote that she was a victim of her own morbid methods. Her dead eyes stare into the camera, blank and vacant. I wonder whether the pictures were taken peri- or postmortem, as they depict a casualty of lobotomy quite accurately.
Then a thought occurs. “Where did the images come from? Were they taken at the scene?”
Detective Foster’s brow furrows. “I show you pictures of a tortured and murdered doctor and that’s what you want to know?”
I close the folder. “I assume you’ve come a long way to show me these, so you’ve been anticipating my reaction. I’m sorry to disappoint you.” As there were no lobotomy victims found in connection to Grayson in Maine, the detective has to be here on a mission from the prosecution in Delaware. “Otherwise, you’d have just simply emailed this to me.” I hand him back the folder. “You’re here to convince me not to take the stand in New Castle.”
He squares his shoulders. “I’ve read up on you, Dr. Noble. I know how you work. I know that if you stand before that jury and spiel some psychobabble about Sullivan’s abused childhood, then that monster could skate out of the death penalty.”
I crane an eyebrow. The detective is well aware that witness tampering is a crime. But in my experience, officers of the law are typically the ones to break the rules most often.
“But to answer your question—” he digs out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket “—Sullivan didn’t always dispose of the bodies. This one was discovered at the scene. He’s perfecting his methods.”
I angle my head away as he blazes up and releases a smoky exhale. Fitting, that he’s for capital punishment and chooses a habit that gets him closer to his grave each puff. “I would say that he stopped perfecting his methods a year ago. That is, if the perpetrator was indeed caught.” I glance at the folder in his hand. “Do you have evidence tying him to the murder?”
Grayson has admitted the killings to me. I won’t go on trial declaring his innocence. I just enjoy watching the way the detective’s eye tics at the thought.
“You’re welcome to any and all evidence, Dr. Noble. I’ll have it forwarded to you.”
“Thank you.” I star
t to leave, feeling this is a proper place to end the discussion, but he snags the arm of my coat to halt me.
“It’s my hope that once you’ve reviewed the evidence, you’ll know the right thing to do.”
I pull away from him and cross my arms. “The right thing to do, detective, is my job. And no amount of coercion from you or any other police official from New Castle will deter me from that.”
He holds up his hands in defense. “No one’s threatening you, doctor. We’re all on the same side, aren’t we? The side that wants justice for the victims?” He tosses his cigarette down and stubs it out with the toe of his boot.
I huff an empty laugh. “Wanting justice for the victims doesn’t give us a license to kill, detective. Now please contact my office for any further inquiries.”
I leave then. He waits until I make it around the bend in the trail to call out. “He drove an icepick through her skull. But she didn’t die from that.”
My steps slow, but I don’t stop.
“She bled to death,” he shouts.
The exit is in sight. I push through the latticed door and hit the sidewalk, where I find a private alcove between buildings. I press my back to the brick and drag in a breath. An ache lodges in my head, pain radiating from the back of my neck.
I’m not easily shaken. I’ve dealt with far pushier police officials when combatting the prosecution on cases. I was caught off guard, I tell myself. Moments before his intrusion, I’d been feeling vulnerable.
Only I’m not so convincing. Dr. Jenkins and her icepick feel foreboding as I conjure the image from memory. Death due to brain injury is a slow and especially cruel way to die. You don’t essentially bleed to death—not like how Detective Foster portrayed. Rather, swelling inside the skull crushes the brain, severing the function of vital organs.
And yet, I can see the genius of her death, her demise designed to match her crime. There’s no doubt in my mind that Grayson devised a trap to murder the doctor, but it doesn’t frighten me. Not in the way the detective had hoped.
