“I’ve been gutted, Grayson,” she says, a slight tremble to her voice. “My life is no fairy tale. This punishment you’re inflicting on me…I’ve already suffered. Any sins I’ve committed, trust me, I’ve more than paid for them.”
“Have you.”
Her eyes narrow on me. “You know I have.”
I lean my forehead against the cool bars. “Your patients suffered, too. Granted, they were sick individuals. Where we’ve been able to channel our sickness, monitor our compulsions and hide in plain sight, they’re simply not as talented. They lack impulse control. But that’s where the good doctor comes in.” I give her a knowing smile. “You’re the best in your field.”
She climbs to her feet now. “Go to hell, Grayson.”
A dark chuckle slips free. “Which one, baby?”
A disgusted expression twists her pretty features. “I dedicated my life to helping patients that society would rather see executed, exterminated.” She clears her hair from her eyes. “No matter how unlikely rehabilitation became, I still fought for them.”
“You have a bit of Florence Nightingale syndrome, don’t you? Falling a little in love with every patient, seduced by the give and take, sacrifice and consume. Like a toxic, love sick couple. Only for you, it’s all about the take.”
She regards me cautiously. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“You’re an artist, London, your therapy practice like a dance. A bloody ballet where you warp and break the minds of your patients like a dancer’s body, choreographed cruelty. You devour their gifts, and when they’re used up and broken, you discard them to the nearest mental ward.”
She stands perfectly still, eyes gauging, calculating. She was never theprey.
She’s the hunter.
“You fabricated an elaborate story for me, Grayson.” She tilts her head. “None of which is real.”
I cock my head to mimic her. “When did the headaches start?”
Her eyebrows draw together in confusion.
“I bet they’ve been happening more frequently lately. Getting worse, lasting longer.”
“I’ve worked harder this year than at any point in my career,” she says evenly. “Of course, I’m going to be taxed physically and mentally for that.”
“Oh, you’ve been working hard for damn sure. Tell me about Thom Mercer.”
She frowns. “What about Thom?”
“Serving time inside prison, you meet a lot of inmates, some of whom were your patients,” I say, watching a trace of unease flicker across her face. “Thom was especially disturbed. The things he talked about…” Itsk. “If you hadn’t already destroyed him, he may’ve ended up as one of mine.”
“What are you even saying? Thom Mercer was committed to Cotsworth’s psychiatric unit with a schizoaffective disorder, stabilized successfully on medication. He was one of my most acclaimed case studies.”
“Who hanged himself with his bedsheet.”
Her face pales in horror. “Why are you doing this,” she demands, her voice drained of emotion. “Why are you lying.”
“Come on. You know lying isn’t a part of my disorder.”
She breaks eye contact, starts pacing the cell. “No, but creating an elaborate disaster is. I won’t fall victim to this. I won’t become your next disaster.”
“Oh, London.” I love the way her name tastes, like fresh lilacs. “Why do you think I was so tempted from the start? You came to me as a beautiful disaster already.”
She rushes the cage, wild, gripping the bars and throwingherself against them violently. Her prison rattles, but I stand unmoved, watching as the iron holds against her fury.
“Fuck you.Fuck you—” she breathes out, over and over, a desperate chant. She sags against the cage, her grasp on the bars barely holding her upright.
I place my hands over hers. “There’s only one way out,” I say, tracing my thumb over her trembling fingers. “You’re smart enough to figure out how.”
Her dark gaze finds mine, a hint of vulnerability there. “Did what happened before, between us… Did it mean anything to you?”
