Static flickers over the TV screen.
I eject the tape and return it to the filing cabinet, the pressure at my temples easing, but only marginally. There’s still a record in existence.
Trust.
Grayson has a recording of my confession. It’s captured under duress, and it’s unlikely authorities would consider it authentic. It could’ve been enhanced, manipulated. My lawyer could work up a strong defense. And yet, just the existence of that confession disturbs me.
Every serial killer partnership suffered one common flaw: complacency. One or both became too secure in the relationship. This security wasn’t established with trust; it was established through power.
One dominated the other. Their trust exploited.
It always comes down to power and control.
Grayson having something over me places him in a position of power—and I’m not reluctant to admit I’m struggling with the trust part of our relationship.
Lydia would never belong in a relationship such as this.
I press my palms to the cool surface of my desk, letting the temperature bleed from my body. My hand imprints mark the wood when I move away. It’s been an exhausting week.
I lock up my desk, making sure everything is secure, before I start out.
A sound startles me as I near the door, and I stop. My breathing sounds too loud in the enclosed space. Then the door opens.
11
Where I Want You
Grayson
The expression on her face is worth the risk. I step into London’s office and quietly shut the door behind me. The muted click echoes around us, sealing us inside. “Hi, doc.”
Her fists unclench. “Jesus, Grayson. What are you doing here? Are you—?”
“Crazy?” I supply.
She drops her purse on the desk. “I’m being watched. Your actions are reckless. If you were my patient—”
“I still am—”
“—I would suggest you were devolving. Becoming unbalanced. And yes, maybe a touch crazy.” She bites her bottom lip. “And you are not my patient.”
“What am I, then?” I cross the room, coming up close enough to smell her lilac body lotion. The lavender notes in her hair.
She visibly shivers as she looks up at me. “Dangerous.”
Her hair is down, falling in a loose tumble over her shoulders. The way I love it; like she knew I was coming. I push the strands behind her ear, leaning in to whisper, “And you’re a paradox.”
A current snaps between us, and she physically reacts to my nearness, my touch. The air is electrified. I feel the hitch in her breath as it pulses across my skin. Slowly, I remove her glasses and lay them on the desk, revealing her eyes.
“Besides,” I say as I step back, taking her hand in mine. “By all accounts, this is the safest place to be.” I lead her to the adjourning hall, and she allows me. I swipe a finger along the fish tank, giving her a wink. “Good memories.”
Before she can react, I push her up against the glass, grip her waist. The rooms are dark, but she’s lit by the glow of the tank. I draw close to her mouth, watching the way her face twists as if she’s in pain. That same fiery ache scorches my body. Just the threat of touching her skin burns.
The best kind of anticipation.
“A paradox isn’t exactly a compliment,” she says, her voice a low rasp.
Mouth hovering near hers, I find her gaze. “It is if one enjoys puzzles.” I brush my lips across hers, the softest tease. “You’re my favorite puzzle, London.”