by Trisha Wolfe
I glare at him.
His lips curve into a smile. “You do like your torture, don’t you.”
“You know what I like more? People who keep their word. You said once I confessed to the mistreatment and misconduct of my patients, then you’d release me.” I lift my chin. “I’m sure you have a recording of that stashed somewhere…so, the damage is done. My career is surely to be ruined. My files confiscated. Experts called in to reevaluate my patients and treatments. You’ve won, Grayson. Another successful punishment dealt and suffered.”
He pushes the plate away, and I mourn the loss of food. “I do have your recorded confessions, but they won’t do any good. You were half delirious, clearly under duress amid your abduction at the hands of a madman.” He stands and looks down at me. “That’s not why you had to endure and pass the test.”
Anxiety coils around my chest like a snake as he pushes the table back, creating a space for him to kneel in front of me. I glimpse the bloodstain on his shirt. Where I stabbed him. I eye the knife on the table.
I attempt to push away, but my legs are restrained just as tightly as my arms. My bare toes scrape the concrete.
He lays his hands on my thighs, stirring a visceral reaction. The contrast of the cool satin and his body heat ignites my skin. I want to flee and be closer to him all at once.
“Do you know who the girl was?” he asks. The feel of his touch steals the air from my lungs as his hands inch up, the silky dress whispering over my flesh. “The girl in the cage with you. Who was she?”
I breathe through the mounting pressure. “I can’t be sure,” I say. Her dirty face flashes before my eyes, unbidden. “But I think…I think I loved her.”
Honesty is all we have left. Whatever Grayson has planned for me, my only recourse is the truth. He sees through my guise, the façade I display for the world, and he doesn’t judge me the way it does. If anything, admitting the darkest, most disturbing facets of my psyche may buy me time.
And if I’m being completely honest with myself, I want to tell him. He was stolen—he has this whole experience and life as an abducted child, raised by the people who took him…and that’s fascinating. But it’s also sacred to who he is and the answers he harbors with that knowledge.
He glides his palms over my legs. I can feel the abrasive threat of his coarse touch beneath the flimsy material. I want it—and I loathe myself for wanting it. “Love,” he repeats, like he’s sounding it out, tasting it, the same way I am in my head.
“She felt familiar,” I say. “Like family. Like a…”
“Sister.” He looks up at me.
As soon as I hear the word, recognition jars a memory. “Mia.” Little details, quick glimpses of our life, trickle into my mind. Her dirty blond hair tickling my face. Her smile. Her tears. Her laugh.
Then—
He took her from me. The current builds, a stream of memories flooding me. She was ripped through the bars, out of the basement, and away from me. I don’t need to recover all my memories to know the truth.
She’s buried with the others.
“London, breathe.” Grayson’s voice coaxes me away from the dark corner, and I gulp down a fiery breath.
“I don’t want to remember,” I confess. And I don’t. If he tortured her in front of me, if he killed her…my mind has protected me, sheltering me from an evil no child could process. Even now, the pain constricting my chest is so foreign, I’m unable to bear the crush. I don’t want to feel. “She can’t be my sister,” I whisper.
“There’s only one way to be sure.”
At that, my gaze lands on Grayson, trapped in his declaration. “Dig them up,” I say. Only this time when it leaves my mouth, the meaning is different, clear. DNA testing would prove if I had a sister. It would prove so much…
“You’ll never get answers from him,” Grayson says. “But if you pass your ultimate test, you will no longer need them.”
He buries his head in my lap, and the reflex to touch him strikes like a match. The yearning flares flinty and black between us. I steel my willpower, straining to hold on to some semblance of myself.
Think. The only question I would demand that my father answer is why.
But then, I know that, too, don’t I? I’ve studied and analyzed his disorder over the years. The girl, my sister, Mia—she was much older than me. She was as old as the girls buried in our backyard. She was his target age, and me? I simply got in the way.
So the question then becomes: why did he keep me?
“He didn’t love me,” I reason aloud. “Not in the way a parent loves their child. He was grooming me. I was a project. And when I failed him, I was just another disobedient teen girl who needed punishment.”
Grayson grips my legs, grounding me. And I let him. “He was going to kill me,” I say, knowing it to be absolutely true now. My father—the only father I’ve known—was waiting for me to come of age.
“If you hadn’t killed him first.” He finds my gaze as he eases the dress above my knees. “The feeling, the emotion we call love is only a chemical in the brain. A chemical we never had access to, but does that mean we’re fiends?” He nuzzles my thighs, his lips dragging my dress higher. Heat singes my flesh. “Do we love each other, or are we merely crazy for each other? I know I’m crazy—maddeningly crazy for you. Obsession is a far more evocative emotion than love.”
The fervor of his touch rises, engulfing me in flames. The sensual feel of his palms on my thighs, skin to skin, stirs a carnal want within me that may just be akin to love. I want Grayson, in spite of—or maybe because of—the things he does to me that nobody else would dare.
“I wasn’t born this way.” I turn my head away, my fingers seeking desperately for the string.
“We weren’t born the day we took our first breath. We were born the moment we stole it.”
I close my eyes, feeling the raw and painful truth of his words. “We’re monsters.” I look at him then, breathless and torn. “And our love is this monstrous thing that will devour us.”
“It might, or it can take all the uncertainty and pain away,” he says. “This is right, London. We were born without remorse or guilt, because we’re designed to take life. The shame you feel, the guilt…it’s not real. You’ve trained yourself to feel emotions that don’t exist. Your mind has detached from certain areas of reality to shelter you from what you truly are.”
“A killer,” I whisper. An ache throbs at the base of my skull and I shut my eyes. “No. You’re sick. I’m sick. We need help.”
His deep laugh vibrates against my legs. “I am sick. I’m lovesick. But all love is a sickness. People do things to each other…couples employing deceptive tactics to try to change one another. Make them into a better version of themselves in the name of love. We’re just more honest about it. We don’t have to sugarcoat the process.”
I shake my head. “I was fine before you happened to me.”
He places a kiss on my thigh, then stands, looming over me. “You weren’t fine, London. You were drowning.”
I watch him walk to the end of the table, and I try again to free myself from the thick thread. I can’t lose my grip on reality. I have to stay mentally strong, but I’m not sure of anything anymore—I’m not sure of myself.
Grayson returns with a folder. He drops it on the table, the contents spilling over the white tablecloth. “I couldn’t access patient files. Not without giving us away. That’s too dangerous.” He tweaks a page from the pile. “But I was able to pull this off the Internet. I hope it will suffice.”
He lays the page on my lap, the headline too bold to mistake.
“Convicted serial killer of three hangs himself in mental institution,” he reads out loud. Another page is laid on top. “Arsonist murderer found dead in cell.” Then another. “Suicide takes life of convicted rapist.”
The pages continue to stack, each headline a weight, every name a face. It builds until the pain in my head screams, and I shout, “Enough—”
Knelt before me, Grayson reaches up and touches my hair. “I love it when you wear it down.” He drapes the strands over my bare shoulders, situating the beaded shawl, his touch calming, gentle. I focus on grounding myself as a wave of nausea washes through me.
“I didn’t kill them,” I say, so low I can barely distinguish my own voice.
“No,” he says, removing the printed pages from my lap. “You didn’t kill them. You just gave them the means to kill themselves.”
The world tilts.
“Just like your most recent patient, or victim, Dale Riley.”
I blink hard, begging the world to right itself. “No. Riley transferred out of the program.”
A slanted smile steals across his face. “Is that what you call it? Transferring out. I like it. You’re exceptional, London. The way you’re able to not just lead a professional life, but thrive in it. Everyone around you, the whole world, invested in your lie. The truth is, Riley put a bullet through his head. Stole an officer’s gun and right here—” he angles two fingers under his chin “—pow.”
I turn my head, unable to look into his glacier eyes any longer.
“You see, London. Now that you’ve been shown the truth, you’ll never see the lie again. You’re liberated.”
“Liberated,” I repeat, trying to understand the meaning. The word sounds bizarre.
“No one understands you better than me. There’s no one who knows you more intimately, who will love you more passionately.” He strokes my face, then lays his hand over mine, caressing the tattooed scar along my palm. “We even mark ourselves the same. Our kills carved and inked on our flesh.”
I swallow. “I’ve only taken one life.”
His eyebrows hike. “You’ve taken six lives. Not with your own hands, you break their minds, plant a dark seed and help it grow, until your victims only have one choice.” He reaches for the knife. “We’re the same.”
My eyelids are too heavy to keep open. I let them drop as a swaying motion lulls me to some higher plane of consciousness. If I let him kill me, just end my life, I don’t have to face this truth again tomorrow. It can end here.
A sudden movement jars me back. I hear a loud tear, and my arm is freed as the thread is stripped off. I open my eyes as Grayson then uses the knife to cut my other wrist free. He places the knife in my hand.
“You’ve been denying yourself the honesty of who you are,” he says. “And I’ve been weak. I have as much to answer for as you. My victims didn’t deserve the mercy I showed them, by even giving them a choice to redeem themselves. We were put here for a reason, designed for one purpose. Now that we’ve found each other, we don’t have to yield to their laws anymore.”
I stare up at him, a beautiful, dark god towering over his own insane creations. “You’re absolutely mad.”
His smile is shattering. “I can’t wait for you to join me.”
I grip the knife, adrenaline surging.
“But, I’m giving you a choice. After this, there are no more choices. This is the finality of us.”
I glance at the darkness, then at him. My chest tingles with anticipation. “What are my options?”
“A year ago, I was stalking a man before I was taken into custody. He was going to be my next victim. Now he’s yours. My gift to you.”
The screams have stopped, but with a shock of frightening awareness, I now know why they exist. “No. Grayson, please. You can’t do this to me.”
“I’ve done nothing to you but reveal the truth. But I am forcing you to finally choose, to stop the lies, London. I can’t tell you how badly I want you to do just that.”
“I won’t play this game.” I throw the knife down, emphasizing my point.
“So you’re going to go back to your world and…what? Confess your misconduct? Lose your license and possibly even serve prison time?”
No. I refuse to suffer the way the filth beneath me does. I shake the thought away.
“I didn’t think so.” He picks up the knife and places it in my grasp once again. “So choose. After everything we’ve uncovered, everything you now know. Do you think you’re above taking a life?”
“Yes.”
“Let’s find out.”
He turns toward the darkness. “You have until morning to decide. Free yourself of the string, run the maze, and make your choice. You can either set our victim free through rehabilitation, or you can end his life.”
Oh, God.
“Begin.”
28
Trap
London
What does it mean to be liberated?
During my career as a professional psychologist, I’ve counseled many patients, each one mentally shackled in one way or another, chained and bound by limitations. Even the most disturbed personalities who believed themselves to be free were governed by a crippling psychosis.
Take away our matter, and we exist only in thought.
We are all thoughts born of character. Each new moment, each new direction we take and journey we venture is first given birth by thought. This thought here, this is my transformation.
I’m being christened by darkness.
I’ve stared into the reflection of myself and glimpsed the unvarnished truth. Undistorted by the image our mind creates. When faced with that candidness, you can either accept or fracture.
No one can survive the absolute destruction of one’s mind. We’re not tempered glass, we’re delicate shards, and I’m cracking.
Have I used my skills to warp the minds of six men? Have I been the murder weapon in their deaths? Or has Grayson shattered my mind?
Which reality is true?
My bare feet pound the earth as I race toward the edge of the woods. Grayson’s house stands tall and ominous against the night sky, its twinkling lights a refracted halo in the crisp air. I use the sparse light to guide me to the fence. I’m almost there.
Static erupts, crackling against the dark. “Touching the fence will end the game too soon, love. You don’t want to do that.”
I pant, my chest tight, as I stare up at the razor wire. I can hear the buzz of electricity humming along the woven metal fencing. Bastard. I look around, desperate for another escape.
“There’s only one way out,” Grayson’s disembodied voice says. “And that’s in.”
The mouth of the garden maze lays before me, surrounded by high walls of vegetation.
“This is madness,” I whisper to myself. “What if I refuse?” I shout. “What if I sit right here all night?”
The chirring of crickets is my only answer. “Shit.” I bury my head in my hands, taking searing breaths, bone-weary. The ache in my back feels as if I’ve cracked in two—the lower half of my body a web of pain.
Atonement is another thought. It comes to me on a frantic note, a scream ringing out through the night. Somewhere amid the maze, a man awaits his fate. One of Grayson’s victims. What has he done to be here? Is he worthy of saving?
Who has the right to make that choice?
I’m not a savior. I’m definitely not a hero. But I refuse to be this vile creature Grayson has painted me out to be. I’m not the bad thing—I can’t be. My father’s blood doesn’t course through my veins.
I have a choice.
I drag the skirt of the dress up, freeing my ankles, and I sprint toward the opening of the maze. I took an oath as a doctor, and I can’t let gravity pull me into the blackest hole…not yet.
Fire snakes a blistering trail through my lungs as I reach the latticed opening, halting just within to grasp a breath. I find purchase on the wall of green, supporting my weight. Thorns press into my palm, and I pull away.
The screaming is louder here. My skin ripples with shivers. A glow dusts the night above the tall hedges, and I know that’s my destination. I go in.
A cold sweat blankets my skin, my teeth chattering. The deeper I go, winding a path around walls of shadowy green, the colder the nighttime air gets. The temperature plunges as the night grows darker.<
br />
“Dammit,” I curse as I hit a dead-end. I spin around, hands fisting my tangled hair. “Where am I going?”
The distorted hiss of the speaker system erupts, and I spin toward the sound.
“You’re too impatient. Head east. You’ll find your patient in the center.”
“Fucking east,” I breathe, my breath fogging. Which way is east? I chase the light instead, navigating the maze by shadows and instinct.
A tinkling sound disrupts the silence that’s been my companion until now. A faint clang whispers in my ears. I follow the chime, dragging the hem of the dress behind me over the worn path. The hollow of the maze brightens as I turn a corner. Shock seizes my chest with a sharp spike.
No.
At first, I refuse to look—to see—so I stare at my hands. My thoughts lost in a void as I’m sucked down by the undertow.
Then I look up at the keys.
A canopy of gleaming silver and bronze and rusted metals held aloft by red string—a blanket woven of blood in the sky. The keys clang together, playing a dark, chiming melody that chills me to the bone.
My voice cracks on a laugh. I glance at the tattooed key on my flesh until my eyes blur. Sweat leaks into their corners, a biting sting like a needle piercing my vision clear.
He knows me.
In my vanity, I concealed the ugly and vile. And yet he saw.
In my profession, your past can be as damning as a wrong diagnosis. Shame is the conception of most sins against ourselves.
Twirling and twinkling like dancing stars in a black sky, the keys glimmer with the reflection of spotlights. Two lights shine on a glass container in the middle of the maze clearing. A tank filled to the brim with what looks like water. A half-naked man suspended above.
He screams as he fights his restraint. “Help me!”
I try to turn around, to go back, but Grayson’s voice cuts through the night to stop me. “Below your patient is a deadly compound containing a heavy concentration of sulfuric acid. A lethal amount that can dissolve flesh and bone. To help him, London, you have to follow the rules. If you deem his life worthy of saving, that is.”
