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I shut my eyes. Center myself. Then, with renewed purpose, I hit the elevator button.
Grayson has been incarcerated. This is a fact. For officials, whatever investigation my practice or I were under is probably of no more concern. At least for now.
My floor is uncannily quiet when I step out. I curse when I find my office door already unlocked. “They could’ve at least locked back up.”
I push the door open. What’s left of my patience ignites a very small fuse.
Agent Nelson is seated at my desk, flipping through my planner. He doesn’t look up, just continues to intrude on my privacy. “I thought you might go to him first.” He pencils something into my planner. ?
?But then I figured this is your haven. Where you keep your secrets.”
Against my will, my gaze slides to the filing cabinet.
“You would want to check on the status of your office first,” he continues, and looks up. “Make sure nothing is out of place.”
I smooth the lines of my face, clearing my features of all emotion. It’s difficult to maintain an unaffected countenance when I glimpse the wall behind Nelson—my research on Grayson exposed. The Dali discarded to the floor.
“I do plan to see Grayson,” I say, moving into my office. “For an interview. Unlike some professionals, I can set my personal feelings aside in order to do my job. His state of mind right now could give us insight—”
Nelson stands abruptly. “You can stop lying to me now.”
I square my shoulders. “I don’t owe you anything. No explanations. And I’m quite certain that the search warrant is now expired, so I’m politely asking you to leave my office, agent.”
He pushes my chair back and turns toward the wall, trails a finger over the pages on the corkboard. “I feel like a fool. Here I was, vehemently declaring your innocence to my superiors, and it wasn’t Sullivan who had the obsession—it was you. Fixated on your own patient.” He looks at me then. “Are you in love with him?”
This isn’t the probing question of a curious FBI agent. Nelson is dropping the guise. His tone seethes with offense. His suit is wrinkled, as if he hasn’t slept in days. He’s endured some kind of setback during Grayson’s arrest.
“Frankly,” I say, “that’s none of your business. How I conduct my sessions and therapeutic techniques with my patients is none of the FBI’s concern.”
He moves around the desk, coming toward me. “I should’ve put it together with the inconclusive rape exam. What is it about the bad boy that turns smart women into whores?”
I inch toward the door. “You need to leave. Now. You need sleep, agent.”
He scrubs a hand down his face. “No. I don’t think that’s what I need. I need what you gave Grayson. You’re his muse. His creative genius is influenced by you.”
I grip the door handle, and he halts his pursuit. “With Grayson behind bars, who will take the fall, Nelson? Have you thought this through?”
The farce is over. Nelson never intended for Grayson to be captured alive—that’s too much of a risk. An intelligent criminal who’s been framed for murders he didn’t commit could do serious damage to the guilty party, even from prison.
And I’m Grayson’s lover. The proof of my affection is written all over my investigation into him. The hours, days, weeks I devoted to the patient who abducted and tortured me…that’s just not natural. I should’ve been working harder to ensure Grayson’s capture, not investing time into setting him free. That’s what Nelson sees. The fruits of my labor.
Which means I know about the copycat killings.
I’m as much of a threat to him as Grayson.
“Obsessed fan who finishes what was started,” he says, waving a hand thoughtlessly. “Or maybe you just couldn’t handle it. The man you love taken away again. The judgment from not only your patients, but also your colleagues. Your career in ruins. Suicide rates are up this season.”
I exhale a lengthy breath, thinking how to buy time. “Detective Foster would’ve been more original. Secretly, I was rooting for it to be him. You’re an insult to Grayson’s methods.”
He chuckles, but the sound is off, disembodied. “Foster is an embarrassment to law enforcement. He doesn’t have the first clue.”
I crane an eyebrow. “He shadowed you, according to the reports. Followed you right to the scene of the crime. I bet you’ve been plagued by that—going over it and over it. Thinking if Foster had just been ten minutes earlier…” I trail off, a taunt in my voice. “You shouldn’t underestimate people. The number one reason why serial killers get caught is because they start to believe they’re unstoppable. They make careless mistakes.”
Something in his gaze dims, unseeing. He’s staring through me. Gaining an ounce of leverage, I ease away from the door and toward the filing cabinet. I’m not leaving here without what I came for.
Nelson snaps out of his daze, and I stop all movement. “Who slit the rapist’s throat?” he suddenly asks.
I stay still. A fixed object, unthreatening. “You’re not making sense, Nelson. We can go to my therapy room. I have techniques that can help you—”
