LONDON
Pig’s blood.
According to a pathologist friend who was gracious enough to test a sample at the precinct, Margot Reker’s sister doused me in the blood of a swine. She either considers me a cop—the only logical connection I can draw here—or she owns a pig farm.
Which isn’t bringing any good conclusions to mind, so I’m going with her mistaking my profession and access to a butcher’s shop.
Ultimately, I left the precinct without pressing charges. No reason for Margot and her family to suffer any further than they already have. Besides, by waving the lengthy process, I was at least able to salvage my afternoon sessions.
After an hour of showering and scrubbing, I still feel like a filmy layer of pig membranes coats my skin. No use trying to salvage my designer suit, it’s trashed right along with my dignity.
And I really loved that suit.
Even a decade later, the thought of how much I spent on the expensive label drops heavy in my stomach like a lead weight.Thud. That lingering regret of losing something costly—regardless if I can afford it—is a testament to my roots, so deeply ingrained that no amount of money can reshape how I see myself.
Although I dress the part, when I look in the mirror, I still see that same poor, small-town girl. Her washed-out skin. Her sullen, sunken eyes, and badly bleached hair.
I toss my rich dark locks over my shoulder now as I pull open the door of my building. I’ve spent years helping others to rise above, to embrace a future free of their past, so you’d think this knowledge would benefit me. Yet I still struggle with my own personal therapist to move beyond that disadvantaged girl from Hollows, Mississippi.
And being doused in pig’s blood sure as shit doesn’t help me forget.
On the elevator ride up, I use the few seconds I have alone to pin my hair up and pop a muscle relaxer. The lengthy shower worsened my flare-up, further aggravating the inflammationuntil, in a fit of frustration, I twisted the lever all the way to cold.
Admittedly, it was a poor substitution for my morning routine of hot and cold therapy, which was already upset by the trial. What’s a little pig’s blood to top it all off? But it reminds me I need to have Lacy schedule an appointment with my doctor.
The elevator doors slide open to the sixth floor. My floor. Reclaimed hardwood meets each step, my nine-hundred-dollar pumps tapping against the refinished surface. The walls of my practice are a soothing gray. Decorative art hangs strategically at eye level to keep my wealthy clients from staring at the shackled criminals in the waiting room.
I should’ve remodeled after I leased the floor, designed a separate waiting room—one where the ward could stow the eyesores—but that would’ve felt too much like acceptance, allowing me to continue in a direction I no longer want to pursue.
I shrug off the morning with my fitted blazer as I approach the reception desk.
“Oh, my god, London—are you all right?” Lacy asks in a rush. Apparently, word has already gotten around. “It was on the news,” she says, answering my unspoken question. “What happened was wild. I’m so sorry. Why didn’t you take the day off?”
A forced smile pulls my features tight. I admit, a morning blood bath is an extreme way to greet the day, even for me—but I’ve dealt with worse. I’ve been spat on, choked, nearly defecated on. At least this time, I don’t need a penicillin shot. Still, for the sake of everyone else, I should probably play the role of horrified physician.
“I’m fine, Lacy. Nothing I can’t handle,” I assure her. “You need to remind the warden not to bring the inmates up here until their scheduled appointment.”
Lacy is intelligent. One of the top in her class at Yale. I’m not reprimanding her; she’s used to my sharp moods. She looks down and fidgets with her phone, flipping away notifications. “Believe me,” she says, “I reminded him. I don’t want them around any longer than they have to be.”
Besides being smart, Lacy is also stunning. Long blond hair and shapely. The inmates have no shame in ogling her. I roll my shoulders back and adjust my glasses. “I’ll handle it.”
Warden Marks is tall and lanky, his pointed features reminding me of the scarecrows back home, his presence exuding the same creepiness as the straw-stuffed fiends from my past.
He’s seated in the cushioned chair beside to my office door, his black loafer tapping. Two inmates in bright orange are positioned on either side of him, three corrections officersstanding guard. The convicts might draw less attention if the warden allowed them to wear a less distinctive color. Although, their handcuffed wrists chained to their ankles might be more unsettling than the loud jumpsuits.
One more year.
My commitment to Cotsworth Correctional Facility will be fulfilled in a year’s time. Although my work with convicted murderers is what launched my career—the general public’s morbid fascination with serial killers a huge springboard—I’m moving away from that field. I owe Marks and others like him some debt of gratitude, as my research and methods are now taught at nearly every criminal justice academy nationwide, but I’m officially through.
After seven years of intense study into the mind of the criminally insane, I have formed only one conclusion: serial offenders cannot be rehabilitated.
There is, of course, the subject who finds God or some divine calling and appears to transcend beyond their compulsions, but their newfound faith is never put to the test in a real-world setting. It’s the same as with my methods, really. Without the ability to observe inmates in a less restrictive setting, one that keeps their compulsions checked, effective rehabilitation can never truly be proven.
Rather, my methods simply make life inside the prison environment more bearable for the wardens and guards and doctors who deal with these offenders on a daily basis.
No, despite what I tout at conferences, I do not believe rehabilitation is achievable, especially for the Bundys and Dahmers of the world. They are governed by their id—and the id is the ultimate monster.
“Warden Marks,” I greet him tersely as I approach my office. “I shouldn’t have to remind you that inmates cannot use the waiting room.”
