Born, Darkly (Darkly, Madly 1)

I flip the light switch on, and the room is lit with the warm glow of track lighting. A diffuser in the corner emits the scent of sandalwood, a calming fragrance to enhance the saltwater fish tank along the narrow hallway that adjoins my therapy room. The whole room is styled in soothing, cool colors, but is otherwise devoid of details.

I find it’s best to keep convicts as calm as possible during sessions, and the blank space is intentional, designed not to trigger any unwanted memories or episodes. Also, my other clients appreciate the ambiance, as well.

After I tuck my purse away in my desk drawer and lock it, I lead the men into the therapy room and eye the rug beneath the contemporary leather chair. The officer knows the drill. He pushes the chair aside and pulls up the small area rug, revealing a bolted manacle in the floorboard.

The custom installation wasn’t cheap, and it came out of my own pocket, but the solution to conceal a floor restraint was more appealing than having a restraint bench in the middle of my room.

Once I have the forms completed, Marks signs his name, and the officer has my newest patient shackled to the floor. He’s only given enough slack to stand or be seated. No roaming during sessions.

As an extra precaution, all pens and sharp objects are locked inside my desk.

A prisoner once made it out with a pencil that he promptly lodged in an officer’s neck during an attempted escape. With violent offenders, no amount of vigilance can be enough.

The warden heads toward the office. “I feel the need to warn you that Sullivan is a level three inmate.” His brow furrows as he watches for my reaction. “I’ll be leaving Michaels with you.”

I scoot my chair up to the marked line four feet away from the shackled man in the room. “I appreciate the concern, and I am aware of the risk, but I don’t conduct sessions that way. Michaels can wait outside the office, as always.” I meet his squinted gaze. “I’m sure if Sullivan was too much risk, we’d be conducting this

session in a cell rather than here. Correct?”

And he knows for damn certain that’s not happening. My first year out of college, I spent every weekday locked inside a cell with prisoners. I still have nightmares—the sound of a cell door clanging shut, the pound of feet and chains against concrete floors. The stench of urine and feces—sometimes being slung at me. The catcalls and riots.

Those iron bars that haunt me.

If the warden wants to continue my contract with the facility, then sessions will continue to be conducted under my terms.

With a dismissive wave of his hand, the warden leaves. The officer gives me a curt nod before he exits the therapy room. A few seconds later, the sound of my office door closing echoes around us. The hum of the fish tank fills the sudden, stark silence.

Without looking up, I open the file on my lap and scan the details. “Inmate number six-one-four. Grayson Pierce Sullivan. What do you like to go by?”

The silence stretches, forcing me to glance up. He’s no longer staring at the floor; his eyes are trained on my face. In this lighting, I can’t tell if they’re blue or green, but his bright, steely irises are surrounded by a thick fringe of lashes. His short-cropped hair is the standard cut for all inmates, and provides a glimpse at several white scars along his scalp.

“I’ll need to refer to you by something,” I prompt.

The man in front of me doesn’t respond. I use his lack of communication to quickly read over his file. I’m typically given a week to learn about my patients; I like to have a treatment plan in place before the introduction. But considering the circumstance, I’ll have to assess him first.

Fine. I close the file and set it on the armrest. “We don’t have to do introductions, but you should know my name is Dr. –”

“I know who you are.”

The deep bass of his voice hits my chest. He closes off again just as quickly, those unblinking eyes staring through me with uninhibited confidence. It’s been a long time since a patient unnerved me.

I clear my throat. “Then you’ve had the privilege of researching me before I could look into you. That puts me at a disadvantage, Grayson.”

I choose to call him by his first name, something other than what the warden and guards refer to him as. It’s not much of a reaction, but a muscle jumps along his jaw at my use of his given name.

“Your file says you’ve been convicted of five murders,” I continue, maintaining eye contact. “You’ve served a year of a life sentence.”

He doesn’t deny the murders. At least that’s a start. Half the convicts that make their way to my office are still pleading their cases. Researching the law and harassing lawyers.

“There were no bodies,” he says.

I nod. “So you are holding out hope for an appeal.” Which doesn’t much matter for Maine, since Delaware is the state he should be concerned about.

“Only stating the facts, Dr. Noble.”

My name rolls off his tongue in a smooth cadence, inflecting a slight accent. I’m trying to place it when what he said registers. Five murder convictions with no bodies. A recollection comes to mind, and I tilt my head. “Corpus delicti. Body of the crime.”

“That’s correct.”