I press a hand to my stomach, the black satin binding, as I force air into my constricted lungs.
Do you think you’re above taking a life?
Grayson’s question taunts me. He chose this particular victim for a reason.
I step back onto the stone, my bare feet scratched from the maze. “Tell me about your victims, Roger.”
Beyond the shadows, I glimpse his motionless form. Without my glasses, he’s blurred at this distance, but I can read the rigid tension of his body. “Why? What do they matter?”
No denial. No remorse.What do they matter.
If this man were seated in my therapy room, I’d make a note to explore traits within the antisocial spectrum, assessing for markers indicative of psychopathy. But we’re not in my therapy room—and there’s only enough time to acknowledge that those traits exist.
“I’m a psychologist,” I say, pausing a moment before I reach for the next key. “I can help you. Well, in theory. Truthfully, Idon’t actually care whether you live or die. I just don’t want your death on my hands.”
There. Brutal honesty. Wherever Grayson is, I’m sure that devilish smile tilts his lips.
“If it’s true, and you’ve committed the crimes levied against you,” I say to Roger, “then that psychotic man over the speaker system isn’t going to let you leave here alive. I’m not really sure there’s anything I can do to save you.”
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he shouts down at me. “Jesus—you’re just as fucked up as him.”
I shrug, indifferent. “Maybe. Probably.”
The adrenaline has run its course, and exhaustion has depleted my patience. Even before Grayson first stepped into my office, I had already concluded that rehabilitation is not possible for the truly sadistic.
If I were given an eternity of nights to transform this man, I still would not succeed.
Somewhere in the recesses of my mind, a voice whispers that I’ve been here before, standing at the precipice. The moment I first understood I was fighting an impossible battle.
During this moment of acceptance, I broke a patient’s mind. I turned his psychosis against him and urged it to devour him—to end him.
My chest ignites, breaths turning erratic. I pull in a lungful of cool air, dousing the burn.
Now that you’ve been shown the truth, you’ll never see the lie again. You’re liberated.
Liberated. Free to speak and act without shame.
“I’m not ashamed for what I’ve done,” I say, steadying myself on the rock. “I’m ashamed that I hid it from myself.” A weakness I embraced the moment I woke in that hospital bed. A denial I nurtured into delusion because I couldn’t—wouldn't—accept the truth.
I shift my gaze toward the tank. “Where is Micheal,Roger?”
He twists, struggling pathetically. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I blow the bangs from my eyes, hands planted on my hips, impatient. “You stole a little boy. You have him hidden somewhere. If you want me to save you, you’re going to tell me where. Is Micheal alive?”
My hand thrusts into the air, and I flick the key with a taunt.
He shouts, “Yes! All right. Yes. The boy is alive.”
I pull the key. Roger’s body is hoisted higher, and a sob of relief racks through him.
That’s all the confirmation I need that Grayson is playing according to his own rules. He’s controlling the mechanism. The keys are tied to the strings, the strings linked to the contraption, and Grayson is operating the controls. He’s in control.
We’re in control.
Roger’s life hinges on Roger alone.
If I want to save this man, all I have to do is work confessions from him. Yet there has to be a catch. Grayson has never given any of his victims a real chance.
