Born, Darkly (Darkly, Madly 1)

The lawyer flips through the evaluation I retyped only the night before. He was so confident in my verbal assessment that he never asked to receive the report prior to the trial.

“The treatment plan you originally thought best tailored for Mr. Sullivan was to be medicated under your care, to receive continued therapy sessions, and to slowly integrate him into general population where he can be a productive member of the correctional society.” He glares at me, a threat in his eyes. “Do you still feel that Mr. Sullivan can benefit from this treatment?”

“Let me put it as simply as possible,” I say, bolstering myself. “Mr. Sullivan’s victims were, as he believed, guilty of crimes. Crimes he felt were deserving of extreme and disturbing vigilante justice. Does assimilating him into a population full of criminals sound like a good idea to you, Mr. Young?”

The shock on the lawyer’s face is only topped by the collective wave of agreement that rolls through the room.

“Order,” the judge demands.

I make eye contact with Grayson then. There’s no malice on his face, only the hint of a smirk. Those knowing eyes drill into me.

I roll my shoulders. “Furthermore, I discovered that Mr. Sullivan suffers an uncharacterized delusional disorder in connection to his psychopathy. He believes he has grandiose connections with his victims, which develops into a fixation on them where his delusion creates an alternate reality. In other words, the manipulation tactics he deploys on his victims serves to influence his own delusions, resulting in his belief of his own lies. This gives him the conviction to punish, maim, and kill without guilt or remorse.” I take a breath before I push through. I have to push through. “Anyone Grayson Sullivan comes into contact with is at risk for becoming a part of his delusions and thereby suffering either physical or mental harm. He is one of the most dangerous individuals I’ve come into contact with and feel I’m unable to continue his treatment. I do not feel rehabilitation is a prospect for Mr. Sullivan.”

Silence falls

over the court, and Mr. Young clears his throat. “Thank you, Dr. Noble. Nothing more, Your Honor.”

After a charged moment, the judge looks to the Attorney General. “Would you like to cross examine, Mr. Shafer?”

The lawyer stands briefly. “No, Your Honor. The prosecution rests.”

“Please escort Dr. Noble off the stand,” the judge instructs the bailiff. “Court is adjourned for an hour recess, then we’ll hear closing arguments.”

I flinch at the commotion rising around the room as people stand. The finality of it rocks through me, and I grab the edge of the stand to help me rise. I pass Grayson on unsteady legs, the need to look into his eyes an unbearable, painful demand. The string tethering me to him snaps taut.

When I give in to the desire and our eyes meet, no words are needed. I see it there on his face, the understanding of what I’ve done. I’ve secured my lie by misdiagnosing a patient in open court. No one will hear or believe his claims about me.

I have sabotaged not only my career to do so, but any chance he had.

I’ve just sentenced Grayson to death.

My secret will die with him.

17

Execution

Grayson

“All rise.”

I stand along with my lawyer and straighten my tie, giving it a tug to loosen it from around my constricted throat.

“At least there were no videos to defend this time around,” Young whispers my way. “Good luck.”

Luck isn’t on my side. London made sure of that. My lawyer has lost all of that enthusiastic hope he had early on at winning his shot. Her testimony shocked everyone here. Probably every professional in her field. The only person not surprised by her dramatic shift from savior to condemner is me.

I suppress a smile. I loved every second of watching her embrace her killer instinct.

As the jury enters, I look around the room instead of at them. I don’t need to see their hung heads and grave expressions. I knew the outcome of this trial before it started. I’m looking for London. She’s all that matters now.

She’s not here to witness her victory, however. I imagine she’s sitting alone in some hotel room, awaiting the verdict. Her guilt keeping her company. Funny thing about guilt; it’s a tricky emotion, often mistaken for shame.

London has nothing to feel ashamed about. Who wouldn’t defend their life? I’m a threat she can’t allow. I gave her no other choice.

“In the matter of Delaware verses Grayson Sullivan, for the charge of first-degree murder, how do you find the defendant?”

“Guilty, Your Honor.”