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In my email to her, I stated one of Grayson’s victims was linked to Alex, but I didn’t use any detailed descriptors or names. I’m still hesitant to give too much away now, but what I need can only be gleaned by an equal exchange of information.
“I’m sure you didn’t have me fly across the country just to recount what I ‘hypothetically’ relayed in email.” I take the seat across from her and mimic her body language. Woman to woman. “And I didn’t fly across the damn country to recount it, either. I need to find the person who did this to me. And when I do, I need to know what makes him tick.” I suppress a dark smile at my Alex pun.
She rubs the side of her palm, deep eyes regarding me. It’s unnerving, the way she holds my gaze. Most people make eye contact then look away. It’s rude to stare into a person’s eyes too long. This is one of the first things I taught myself, so as not to make others feel uncomfortable.
Now I understand what it feels like to be regarded by a callous stare.
“And you believe I can somehow help you find this man,” she states.
“I know you can.”
“I’m not sure how.”
“Alex’s sister,” I say, steeling my nerves to hold her intense stare. “You studied Sullivan. You were close to him. You know about his victims. Which means, you have information not known to the public about Dr. Mary Jenkins.” I lift my chin higher. “I need this information.”
For the first time since London entered the room, her mask slips and her features betray her. The widening of her eyes, the slight part of her mouth. This victim affects her. Maybe because Mary was a doctor, a sort of professional colleague. Maybe because of the gruesome manner in which Mary was murdered. A victim of her own barbaric lobotomy practice.
“Unfortunately, I was never given much information on Dr. Jenkins,” she says, takes a sip of wine. “But let’s drop all pretense, Blakely. Finding Alex is only partly why we’re here. There’s something else you want, and I’m not sure why you think I can help you get it.”
Anxiety worms beneath my skin, my patience thin. How much of the truth can I reveal to her? Confess that I killed a man? That I can’t turn myself in because, selfishly, I don’t want to wither away in prison? That I have to correct this defect inside me first so I can do hard time?
Just the absurdity of my thoughts makes me nearly crack into hysterical laughter.
“He tortured me,” I say instead. “He experimented on my brain. He injected me with…I don’t even know what he put inside me, and now I’m this…” I trail off, frustration polluting my thoughts. “I’m this other person.”
London leans forward. “Take three deep breaths.”
A manic laugh slips free, the insult sharp. “I never used to have to take fucking breaths.” But I do. I pause long enough to breathe and compose myself. “I don’t even recognize myself. It’s like waking up in someone else’s skin every day, and it’s disorienting, terrifying. I don’t just want to find him; I want to carve out his damn heart. Douse him in gasoline and set him aflame.”Make him suffer the fire that should’ve been his fate.My hands curl into fists. “I want revenge.”
Even as I confess this, as I voice my desire to the universe, I feel the omission in my words. And Dr. Noble is good at what she does—she senses it, too.
“Passion is a complex beast,” she says, her voice resolute. “It can present in many different forms. Anger, fear, desperation, vengeance, obsession. Love.” Her gaze traps mine. “And the tricky part is, it’s usually a combination of all.”
My nails bite into my palms. The confusing and complicated emotions I feel for Alex twists me daily. I don’t need this woman pointing them out. I don’t need another doctor fucking with my head. I know I’m sick.
Hemademe sick.
Incensed, I shake my head. “I have one motive, and that’s to force him to correct the damage he’s caused and reverse the procedure, and if he can’t—” I shrug, letting the silence underscore the blank. “The world has no use for a monster like him.”
“You want him to reverse the treatment,” she says.
“More than anything.”
“What if that’s not a possibility? What then?”
“Then, like I said. I’ll do what I do best. Take my revenge.”
“But then you still have to wake up every day as who you are now,” she says, applying infuriating logic. “You know, Blakely, there’s another possibility as to why this might be happening to you.”
I exhale a heavy breath and reach for my wineglass. “London, I’m not trying to be difficult, as I appreciate your time, but honestly, psychiatry has never worked for me.”
“That’s good, then, as I’m not a psychiatrist.” Her smile is disarming. “As you pointed out, I worked closely with Grayson Sullivan and others like him. I’ve studied the psychopathic mind, as I’m sure you’ve devoted countless hours of study to psychopathy when you understood what you were.”
“Of course,” I say.
“Then I wonder if you’ve ever heard of disempathetic type.” At the confused draw of my eyebrows, she leans forward. “There is some debate about this in the psychiatric community, but it’s where a psychopath has a restricted circle of empathy for those closest to them. In other words, it’s possible to develop a deep, emotional bond or connection for another person, if only limited.”
“That sounds like a fairy tale for my kind.”
