He is a hopeless case.
5
PSYCHOPATHY
LONDON
Iadjust the video recorder, centering the frame with a close-up on Grayson. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”
When he says nothing, I turn around and move out of the shot. “We’re going to try something different,” I explain. “I’m not going to ask questions. I just want you to talk about whatever’s on your mind.”
He runs a palm over his head. His hair has started to grow out. I put in a request with Warden Marks to suspend his haircuts until he’s released from therapy. I’m curious if covering his scars will alter his demeanor and his reactions to me.
So far, he hasn’t revealed the source of his scars, or whether they appear anywhere else on his body. Judging by the long-sleeved thermals he chooses to wear beneath his jumpsuit despite the unseasonably warm weather, I think it’s a safe assumption that he’s concealing more.
There are many ways to hide scars, both physical and emotional. The physical scars are easy enough to conceal, as I know this from experience. I’m not as interested in these, butrather his emotional wounds—the ones that likely exasperated his disorder.
“Do I get my official diagnosis today, doc?” Grayson’s accent is thicker this morning, his voice rough, weary.
After our first month together, I increased our sessions to three times a week. The sooner I develop a treatment plan for him, the sooner I can return to my other patients full time. I worry some may start to suffer from my neglect, but it’s best to focus my undivided attention on Grayson rather than risk anyone’s mental health by being distracted.
With less than two months until his trial date, there’s very little I can offer in way of a defense. Honestly, knowing this, I should end the sessions…but I’m greedy. A death row serial killer with media presence makes for an interesting case study, yes—but it’s more than that.
He has answers.
Before the discovery of the videotapes that got him caught, he was able to blend seamlessly into society. He held a steady job. Fostered romantic relationships. Though none were serious, the guise was that of a normal, functioning male adult. He fed his sadistic cravings and compulsions in a unique way. Not by taking life with his own hands, but by forcing his victims to kill for him.
He has answers—and he’s guarding them.
I lace my arms over my chest. After a month of intensive interviews, I’m still reluctant to paste a label on him. “Would giving you a diagnosis make a difference during our sessions?” I ask him.
He makes an amused sound deep in his throat, shaking his head. “You asked a question.”
I fix a stern expression in place, try to hold it without breaking. Lately, I’ve been enjoying my work too much. A sort of ease has settled between us, where this comfortable banterstarted to develop.
Grayson’s charm is disarming, part of his ruse, the magnetic draw of his personality. But it’s shallow, just the tip of the iceberg. I want to excavate below that surface, even if I have to chisel away at the ice bit by bit.
“You’re right. I won’t ask another,” I say, letting a half-smile slip. “You can go ahead and start talking about whatever you’d like.”
“What do you most want to know?”
A catch in my breath hints to how badly I want to ask him something in particular. His heated gaze drags over my body, slow and invasive. If I didn’t already know better, I might assume it’s a sexual perusal—but this is how Grayson reads people. He gives them a smidgen of what they desire in order to analyze their tells.
As he does this so intuitively, I’m in a constant state of awareness trying to control my micro expressions. It’s like a ping pong match between us as I continually deflect his focus off of me and back onto him.
“How about you start with your career,” I suggest.
He looks disinterested in my choice of topic, but I only need him to relax into the conversation. This session’s purpose is about recording his facial expressions. I want a base comparison for his comfort level and emotional cues. As we dive deeper into his psyche, I’ll need to be able to read him as easily as he reads me.
His chains clatter against the hardwood floor as he eases back into the chair. “I worked with my hands,” he states simply.
I have to stop myself from asking him to elaborate on that point.
His lips quirk into a knowing grin. Grayson doesn’t smile; heleerswith a beautiful smolder. I’m sure in the outside world where his charm is a weapon, his smile can melt the panties right off a woman. On the rare occasion I catch him off guard, I’ve glimpsed a dimple pop along his cheek. I can onlyimagine what a full, unguarded smile from Grayson would look like.
Heart-stopping.
His eyes travel over my body again, and—this time—I feel their intrusion. I meticulously selected my tightest pencil skirt that accentuates my curves. My blouse is unbuttoned low enough to show more than a hint of my cleavage. I stood at my closet door for a long time this morning, thinking about which outfit would distract Grayson.
