Born, Darkly (Darkly, Madly 1)

Lacy’s concerned voice jars me out of my thoughts, and I look up from my phone at my receptionist.

“Warden Marks is already en route from the facility,” she says, sounding as tired as I feel. She lowers the desk phone to the cradle. “I’m sorry.”

I drop my cell into my purse with a sigh. “You’ll have to tell him in person, then. You can handle him.” I give her a tight smile. “Just relay there’s an emergency with a patient that I have to attend to.”

I look away from her doubtful expression. I’m not the avoiding type. In spite of my breakthrough with Sadie, I feel continuing Grayson’s sessions is the wrong course of action.

Sadie wants me to delve deeper. I don’t want to drown.

And I’m drowning in him.

Until recently, I’ve been able to bury my past without any fear of it creeping into my professional life, and I know Grayson is the catalyst for why that’s happening now. I don’t want to confront my fears; I want them to go back to their dark corner and rot.

I can complete his analysis for trial by reviewing our recorded sessions. I’ll prepare my conclusion, then I’ll move on from this case and patient, locking it all away in that same dark corner of my mind where it belongs.

Once I’ve made a decision, I’m firm in my resolve.

“Is that all?” I ask her, turning to leave. I need to be out of here before they arrive.

She holds a finger up. “One more thing. A Detective Foster has left numerous messages. Do you want to return his call?”

I don’t recognize the name. “No. At least not now. If he calls again, tell him to contact me through email.” I receive many solicitations from investigators and law officials, and I simply can’t respond to them all.

“Will do,” Lacy says. “Try to enjoy your day off, London.”

“Thanks. I’ll be in touch.” I square my shoulders as I head toward the elevator, determination and conviction gaining momentum with each sure step in my new direction. I hit the Down button, a relieved feeling settling over me as the silver doors slide open.

My eyes meet his.

It’s only a second, a single lapse in time, but the moment our gaze connects, all resolve and surety slithers away like the spineless invertebrate I’ve become. I’m fleeing. I’m running. Grayson’s knowing blue eyes see right through me, calling me out.

Warden Marks is talking, but I hear nothing. My gaze is trapped by the man who refuses to let me go. As I become aware of my surroundings, I notice Grayson’s thermal is missing.

His arms are bare, displaying black and gray designs inking his skin. The tattoos are a shield. You have to look closer to see what’s beneath. The shiny scars the ink can’t completely conceal. I carry the same mask.

When gravity makes itself known, we’re powerless to stop the collision. Knowing you’re being drawn into a black hole does little to prevent the inevitable. Just like Grayson once said: we’re an inevitability.

“London, are you leaving?”

I blink, giving myself a few seconds to focus on the man to my left. I pivot to face Marks. “Not today.”

The confused draw of his eyebrows is his only response as I turn toward my office. Not today. As if Grayson purposely intended to thwart my escape, he dropped the barrier to reel me back in.

I should heed the alarm going off in my head. But the simple truth is, I can’t. He makes me reckless.

I disappear into my office bathroom while the corrections officers shackle Grayson in the middle of the therapy room. Standing at the sink, hands gripped to the pristine marble basin, I wait for the sounds of chains and locks to cease.

I give myself enough time to pull my guard into place, then I lift my chin as I enter the room and nod to the lingering officer. He exits. The hollow click of the office door latching closed tenses my back, the sound loud and final, as if I’m being sealed inside.

Foregoing the recorder, I walk to the edge of my desk and lean against the solid wood. A farther distance from him than when seated in my chair, and the strength I need to support my weight.

“No camera,” Grayson comments.

He’s not asking, but I can hear the question in his voice. I clear my throat. “When I conduct a psychoanalytical examination, I prefer not to record it. I find that when practicing free association, patients respond better when they’re not being monitored as closely.”

Grayson watches me intently, his gaze tracking my movements. He’s waiting for my reaction to his exposed arms. I didn’t give him enough of a response before, when I was too engrossed in my own emotional pull. I know he felt that connection, too.

I could wait for him to open up the discussion, to discover his reasoning as to why he chose today to reveal his scars to me, or I can start the session right in the middle of the deep end.