PROLOGUE
PHYSICIAN, HEAL THYSELF
LONDON
Hands.
We don’t consider them enough.
Taken for granted, our hands don’t get the attention and recognition they deserve. Rather, we abuse them. Use them to abuse. Fondle our fat, loathing our bodies, especially women. We pluck and tug at our face, cursing the years. Never once acknowledging their beauty and strength—those precious instruments that enable us to do almost anything.
I notice mine now. Shaking and cold. The ugly, beveled grooves from wrapping my fingers with string over the years. I use my thumb to smudge off the dirt that hasn’t completely sweated away, revealing the faded black ink along the side of my palm.
My voice cracks on a laugh. I stare at the tattooed key on my skin until my eyes blur. Sweat leaks into the corners, a biting sting like a needle piercing my vision clear.
Then I look up at all the dangling keys.
A canopy of gleaming silver and bronze and rusted metalsheld 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.
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.
A wail rips through the canopy, raw and guttural. A scream wrenched from an abyss of never-ending pain. It forces my hand into the air.
I teeter on the rock, bare feet gripping the serrated edge of stone, as I reach for the first key.
Forgive me.
1
ANIMAL
LONDON
“Dr. Noble, can you tell us what the defendant was thinking when he didthis?” The prosecutor points to a projection screen along the courthouse wall. Magnified for the courtroom, the image displays the charred remains of a woman’s mutilated body.
I press my fingertips into my kneecap behind the witness stand. My nails snag my sheer stockings, and I mentally curse, craving the feel of my string. Turning toward the screen, I open my mouth.
“Objection, Your Honor. The witness can’t know what the defendant was thinking.”
My gaze flicks to Judge Gellar. “Your rebuttal, Mr. Alister,” she prompts the defendant’s attorney.
Armani suit as dark as his eyes, Alister smooths his tie down along his dress shirt. “Dr. Noble is an expert witness, Your Honor. She was called in because she’s an expert in her field, which is insight into the minds of criminal individuals.”
“Disturbed individuals,” the prosecutor says loud enough for the court to hear.
“Don’t make me slam my gavel, Mr. Hatcher.” The judge raises her gavel in warning. “Objection overruled. Dr. Noble was asked to provide testimony of her professional opinion of the defendant’s state of mind. Since she’s come all this way—” Judge Gellar grants me a telling smile, her dark features more youthful when not fixed in a scowl “—I’d like to hear her thoughts.”
The prosecutor clears his throat before taking a seat. My nails sink into my kneecap as I again turn toward the screen. I’m a forensic psychologist in the field of criminal psychology—not a public speaker. No matter how many times I’ve taken the stand, it never gets easier. I loathe public speaking just as much now as I did in college.
“After conducting a comprehensive evaluation of Charles Reker, it’s my professional opinion that he meets the criteria for schizophrenia. In particular, he exhibits a delusional misidentification known as Capgras syndrome. He believes his wife was replaced by an impostor, or as he describes it, a clone?—”
“Objection—”
