A statement Grayson made when I questioned him about his mother. But which mother was he referring to? His biological mother, or the woman who held him prisoner?
As I read through the report, making comparisons to Grayson’s sessions, I come away with a terrible conclusion. All the children were sold to this couple by relatives.
Grayson was not kidnapped by his abductors. Someone sold him to them.
The only likely suspect would be his own mother.
A sinking feeling pulls at my stomach.
He murdered his blood relatives to escape a hell that no child should suffer. And yet, he didn’t return to her once he was free. He fled Ireland, leaving her alive. She didn’t become a victim of his revenge.
Why?
I print out the report, highlighting the areas of interest for further research, and then tack the new material to my private corkboard embedded beneath my Dali painting. Grayson studied me for nearly a year before our official introduction. It’s only fair that I gather insight into his past.
There’s a reason why he refuses to give me answers.
I want it.
And for more than just my own curiosity; it’s keeping the status quo.
Grayson set me free, and liberated me of my past at the same time. I’m unsure if he believes I’m able to do the same for him…or whether he’s decided I already have.
His compulsions haven’t changed. How he channels them has. His disorder has progressed into one of a team dynamic, and that takes trust. Something that was stripped away from him at an early age, by the person who he should’ve been able to trust the most in his world.
His own mother sold him into hell.
I replace the painting along the wall, then unlock the bottom drawer of my filing cabinet. Tapes of my patient sessions are organized by name, year/date, and diagnosis.
When I first arrived home after the excavation of my father’s victims, my office was my immediate destination. To this drawer. To where the videos of my deceased patients awaited confirmation of my malpractice.
I plugged in the video of my last session with Thom Mercer and waited, breath bated, for what I knew was about to unfold. The alternate memories I created had been eradicated while Iwas caged in Grayson’s cell. But that wasn’t enough. I had to see it with my own eyes. Hear it with my ears. Experience the sessions—this time—with no hindrance of a deluded state.
Some kind of morbid awakening, I suppose.
Only the evidence—the only tangible proof of my misconduct—had been erased.
The tapes were blank.
At the time, I reasoned I did so myself, a form of counter forensics—a measure taken to protect myself. I still had holes in my memory. Gaps. Not everything recovered. It made sense that I would hide the evidence of my crime even from myself.
I check the tapes once a week. Just to be sure. It’s a frightening thing not to trust your own mind.
Static flickers over the TV screen.
I eject the tape and return it to the filing cabinet, the pressure at my temples easing, but only marginally. There’s still a record in existence.
Trust.
Grayson has a recording of my confession. It’s captured under duress, and it’s unlikely authorities would consider it authentic. It could’ve been enhanced, manipulated. My lawyer could work up a strong defense. And yet, just the existence of that confession disturbs me.
Every serial killer partnership suffered one common flaw: complacency. One or both became too secure in the relationship. This security wasn’t established with trust; it was established through power.
One dominated the other. Their trust exploited.
It always comes down to power and control.
Grayson having something over me places him in a position of power—and I’m willing to admit I’m struggling with the trust part of our relationship.
