“He came after me, but he left the knife behind. He had no weapon. I let him wrap his hands around my throat, to get close enough before I yanked the key free of the chain and drove it into his neck. I went for the knife, but it wasn’t needed. I’d torn through his jugular. He bled out quickly.”
I glance at my hands, remembering the blood.
So much blood.
“Then you hid the kill.”
“No.” I shake my head. “I didn’t stage the wreck to hide my crime. I had planned to die in that wreck. For what I’d been apart of…what it stirred awake, I wanted it to end. And yet, when I woke in the hospital, injured but alive, it felt like a rebirth. A new life. A new chance.” I gaze up into his eyes, unyielding. “I’m not that girl anymore. She died, Grayson. The day I killed my father, I killed her, too. And there’s nothing you can do to bring her back. My own father failed, so there’s no hope for you. My will is stronger than my illness.”
He tilts his head, his sharp gaze probing, searching for any weak fractures. “Your compulsions didn’t die,” he says, a satisfied smile curling his lips. “You’ve been able to channel your needs through your patients, but it’s getting harder, isn’t it?”
With an impatient breath, I wipe a hand over my face. “I’ve told you what you wanted to know. Now I need to know that it goes no further than here.”
His smile falls, his finger tracing a puzzle piece inked along his inner forearm. “Such a hypocrite, no better than the murderers you treat,” he says, his voice accented and low, guttural. “You’re sick, baby. You might loathe me for what I am, but you despise yourself more.”
“Fucking swear it to me—” I say through clenched teeth.
His blue gaze heats. “I could never share you with anyone, London. I’m far too selfish.”
Chin lifted, I straighten my coat, smoothing my hands over the pleats. “Then this is goodbye, Grayson. I’ll see you in court tomorrow for the last time.”
I walk away from the cell, from him, leaving a jagged piece of myself behind. Grayson possesses my secret, that dark and terrifying truth I’ve kept hidden not only from the world, but in some way, from myself. Whether he’ll keep it or use it to ruin me, I can’t know. Sadistic symphorophilia is a compulsion, and he’s a psychopath who gets off on orchestrating disasters.
And destroying me? That would be the ultimate disaster for a sadist like Grayson.
16
PERJURY
LONDON
Nestled between a row of red oaks, a lone pine stands in the heart of downtown New Castle’s courthouse district. I sit on the courthouse steps, watching as its slender branches sway gently in the breeze.
The tree doesn’t belong. I’m not sure how it got here, how it sprouted up in the middle of so much concrete and uniform landscaping, and it will most likely be cut down soon. Replaced with another red oak or birch to perfectly line the street.
But it’s here.
When I was little, I used to sit by the bay window of my house and stare out at the pines. Tall and slender and tightly packed, they would creak and bend in the storms. I’d watch, hypnotized, as they swayed back and forth, rocking themselves to an unheard melody. As if they were self-soothing amidst all the violence.
That sight should’ve been a comfort. It shouldn’t have frightened me.
But because there is comfort, there is fear. And fear is moreacute when the threat of the storm is looming, when it’s near. The anticipation of our worst fears coming true is more paralyzing than the impact of the storm itself.
There is no shelter from the storm.
I pick up my coffee cup and briefcase, and head into the courthouse, where I wait to be called. My suit is still warm from the sun, the blast of the air-conditioning sends a shiver across my skin. I drain my cup, tossing it as the bailiff calls my name.
The moment I enter the courtroom, I sense his eyes on me. Keeping my gaze aimed ahead, I follow the bailiff toward the front. He holds the gate open, and I give a curt nod as I push through and step toward the witness stand.
“Raise your right hand,” the bailiff instructs.
After I’m sworn in, I take my seat in the witness box. I’ve done this so many times it’s become habit—and yet, everything about this time feels different.
I feel the weight of the prosecution’s judgment in a way I never have before. I’m tethered to the defendant by an invisible thread—one that pulls too tightly, begging to be severed.
The lights are amplified, intense. The sounds too loud, the air too thick.
“Hello, Dr. Noble.”
