I step inside.
A cold sweat blankets my skin, my teeth chattering. The deeper I head into the maze, winding along paths walled by shadowy green, the colder the air becomes. The temperature plunges as the night grows darker.
“Dammit,” I curse as I stumble into a dead end. I spin around, fingers gripping at my tangled hair. “Where the hell am I going?”
The distorted hiss of the speaker erupts, and I whirl toward the sound.
“You’re too impatient. Head east,” Grayson directs. “You’ll find your patient in the center.”
“Which way is fucking east?” I mutter, my breath fogging the chilly air. Frustrated, I chase the glowing light instead, navigating the maze by shadows and instinct.
A faint tinkling sound disrupts the silence that’s filled the maze until now. The clang whispers into my ears, and I follow the chime, my dress dragging behind me as I cross the worn path. As I turn a corner, the hollow center of the maze brightens.
And shock seizes the air in my lungs.
No.
At first, I refuse to look—tosee—so I stare down at my trembling hands instead. My thoughts spiral into a void, pulled downward by the undertow.
Then I look up at the keys.
A canopy of gleaming silver and bronze and rusted metals held aloft by red string—a blanket of blood woven through the sky. The keys clang together, playing a dark, chiming melody that chills me to the bone.
My voice fractures on a frantic laugh, and I look down at the faded key on my skin until my eyes blur. I don’t have my glasses, and yet, as sweat trickles into my eyes, the sharp sting pierces my vision clear.
He knows me.
In my vanity, I concealed the ugly and vile—and yet he saw.
In my profession, your past can be as damning as a misdiagnosis. Shame is the conception of most sins against ourselves.
The keys shine in the spotlights, twirling and shimmering like stars in a black sky. Twin beams illuminate a glass container in the center of the maze clearing: a tank filled to the brim with what appears to be water, a half-naked man suspended above it.
The man sees me, and he starts to scream as he fights his restraint. “Oh, please. Help me?—”
I want to turn away—to run—but Grayson’s deep voice cuts through the night, halting me. “Below your patient is a concentrated solution of sodium hydroxide—caustic enough to rapidly dissolve flesh and bone,” he explains. “To help your patient, London, you must follow the rules. If you deem his life worthy of saving, that is.”
“Christ… Fuck you, Grayson,” I shout as I spin in a circle, searching for the source of his voice. I claw at the strands of beads draping my shoulders, tearing at them until they snap, glass orbs spilling across the ground.
Then I scream, my body shaking with a violent tremble. Breaths ragged, I touch my chest, willing my heart rate to slow. “How do I save him?” I ask slowly.
“There’s a path you have to follow, stones guiding the way. As you stand on each one, select a key. For every key you choose, your patient will either be lowered or lifted higher above.” He pauses a beat. “There are two special keys that I’ve selected for you. One will set the fiend free, the other is the kill switch.”
Breath searing my lungs, I stare at the transparent container. A labyrinth of tubes wind intricately around the rectangular tank.
“Too many wrong choices and your patient will suffer the same fate as his victims,” Grayson says. “But for every sincere confession you encourage from him, redeeming his black soul, you’ll move him farther away from his death.”
I tear a hand through my hair. “What crime did he commit?” I ask Grayson. “What is his mental disorder?”
“I’m innocent,” the man cries.
“Shut up,” I snap at him before I glance at the suspended keys. “Tell me these things, Grayson, or I won’t know how to help him.”
I wait, the chilly air nipping at my skin, before his voice finally returns. “Roger’s particular paraphilia is pedophilic disorder, though I don’t doubt you’ll unearth many others beneath his rotten flesh.”
Sickened, I nod to myself. Although pedophilia isn’t my area of specialty, I’ve treated two patients previously diagnosed with the disorder. My stomach churns violently. No paraphilia disgusts me more. Grayson knew exactly how difficult he was making this for me.
I can’t do this.
