How many people can say they’ve looked into the eyes of a killer?
For most, that is never a reality to contend with. It’s a fiction experienced only through television, safely removed from any threat or corruption. For me, it’s a daily challenge.
The first pair of eyes I remember looking into harbored the soul of a killer.
The eyes I stare into now—that I can clearly discern as the palest steel-blue—stare back into me. Grayson’s knowing gaze reflects my truth, and every molecule of my body rebels in denial, wanting to defiantly snuff out that truth.
He doesn’t know… He can’t know. But paranoia is eating away my reasoning.
“The man who supports his madness with murder is a fanatic,” Grayson says, disturbing my thoughts. “Would you consider yourself a fanatic, Dr. Noble? Or are you…passionate?”
I sit straighter, taking small, sharp breaths to ease the pressure in my back. Ever since my getaway from the detective yesterday evening, I’ve been in a full-scale flare-up.
I adjust my position again and say, “Voltaire.”
Grayson’s smile reaches those glacier eyes. “That’s right.”
“But you only partially quoted him. The first part states that an enthusiast takes ecstasies and visions, making dreams his reality. What do you think the difference is between an enthusiast and a fanatic? What do you think Voltaire was trying to say?”
“This isn’t classic literature one-oh-one. I asked you a question.”
My lips press together. I don’t have to consider my answer for long. “I’m passionate about what I do.”
He shakes his head. “That’s a canned response.”
“What is it that you want?”
His gaze snaps to my face, startling me with the intensity I see there.
“We’re not yet ready for what I want,” he says. “Let’s start with what I don’t. No practiced or rehearsed psycho-nonsense. Give me your honesty.”
I release an extended breath, feeling the weariness of our sessions. The patient is supposed to be the one breaking, not the doctor. His walls stand just as erect as the day he entered my therapy room.
I pick his folder off the floor and set it on my lap. “You want direct conversation?”
“Yes.”
“Because you have no inhibition in saying what you’re thinking, you demand the same of me.”
“Yes.”
I look at him. “How freeing to have the power, the candidness, to just blurt whatever is on your mind and not give a damn how it’s received. Tell me, Grayson. How does that feel?”
The corner of his mouth tips up. “Liberating.”
I lick my lips. My mouth too dry to speak. I’ve allowed him to get under my skin, and he’s enjoying my agitation.
“Is that considered crazy?” he asks. “Does it disturb the nice complacency of all those boring fucks we don’t actually give a shit about?”
“The freedom to do and say what one wants has always disturbed others,” I admit, immediately following up. “It may be nonsensical to you, but it’s why society chooses to shield their innermost thoughts. An empathetic person doesn’t want to hurt anyone or make those around him uncomfortable. In order to…blend, for lack of a better word, we must…” I trail off, unable to complete my thought.
“We, doctor?” Grayson sits forward. “Tell me what we must do.”
I toss my bangs from my eyes and adjust my glasses. “Master our passions.”
His stare is invasive, that disarming gaze hardening as if he’s dissecting me. “Is that how you’ve done it?”
A splash of fear ices my body. “What?”