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I lower into a crouch and slide a plate of food under the bar. Spaghetti and two pain pills. “Take them sparingly.” It’s not the freshest meal, but not too much else can be kept for long without spoiling.
“Answer me.”
“Believe it or not, London. Not everything is a conspiracy against you. That’s the paranoia kicking in.” I tap my temple. “I welded this jail because I’m a welder. It’s what I do. I spent time here myself, staring at the bars, getting accustomed to them.” I run my hand along the cold iron. “I spent a year incarcerated in solitary confinement. I can be a very patient man. I’ll wait for you for as long as it takes.”
She sits up, brushes her hair out of her face. “Can you at least tell me where we are.”
“That’s not what you’re really asking. Our location serves you no purpose.” I sit, making myself comfortable across from her. “You’re asking how likely is the chance that the authorities will find you. This house isn’t in my name. Technically, it doesn’t belong to me or anyone that can be connected to me. It will be a while before you’re found.”
A spark of hope ignites in her dark eyes.
I’ve given her just enough to keep going. She’ll need that tiny flicker of hope to survive her dungeon.
“I have to get rid of the car.” I stand and brush down my jeans. It’s liberating to be out of the orange jumpsuit. “I can’t risk it being spotted. That would be irresponsible.”
“Don’t leave me.”
Her voice is small and fragile. She looks almost helpless on the floor, surrounded by wrought-iron bars. She looks lost.
Another of her sins: deceit. She’s mastered the art of duplicity. In order to fool others, she has to live the lies. As a narcissist, she even believes them. The structure of her world depends on her falsehoods. When London's truly at her breaking point, only then will the dam give, and the truth rush free.
I don’t have an infinite amount of time with her, however. I’m not deluded enough to think that this won’t fail absolutely. Her mind is her strongest attribute. And again, that’s her specialty, not mine. She needs a push.
Bracing my hands on the bars, I say, “It’s strange what impacts us. What defines us. People don’t remember the good. They remember what guts them.”
She gets to her knees. Keeping herself beneath me, giving me the assumption of power. She’s an expert. I smile.
“I’ve been gutted, Grayson. My life is no fairytale. The punishment you’re inflicting on me…I’ve already suffered. Any sins I may have committed throughout my life, I have paid for them already.”
“Have you.”
She squints at me. “You know I have.”
I press my forehead to the bars. “Your patients suffered, too. Granted, they were sick individuals. Where we’ve been able to channel our sickness, control our compulsions and hide in plain sight, they’re not as talented. They lack impulse control. But that’s where the good doctor comes in.” I smile at her. “You are the best in your field.”
She gets to her feet. “Go to hell.”
I laugh. “Which one?”
A disgusted expression tugs her features into a scowl. “I strove to help my patients despite a world that would see them executed, exterminated. Like vermin.” She clears her hair from her eyes. “As rehabilitation became more and more unlikely, I still fought for my patients.”
“You have a bit of Florence Nightingale about you, don’t you? You fall a little in love with all your patients—that give and take, sacrifice and consume, like a lovesick couple. Except for you, it’s all about the take.”
She regards me cautiously. “What are you talking about?”
“You’re an artist, London. Your practice is like a dance. A bloody ballet where you warp and break the minds of your patients like a dancer’s body. You devour their gifts, and when they’re used up and broken, you discard them to the nearest insane asylum.”
She stands still, her eyes gauging me. She’s not the prey; she’s the hunter. “You’ve fabricated a very rich story for me, Grayson. None of which is real.”
I cock my head. “When did the headaches start?”
The confused draw of her eyebrows is her only response.
“I bet they’ve been happening more frequently lately. Becoming more painful, lasting longer.”
“I’ve worked harder this year than at any other point in my career. Of course I’m going to suffer physically for that.”
“You sure have been working hard. What about Thom Mercer?”
