Born, Darkly (Darkly, Madly 1)
“No victims found at the scenes, but there was enough blood and evidence to prove murders had occurred,” I say, recalling the details. “Then, during the investigation, videos were discovered. Footage of the murdered victims. The videos were leaked and went viral.”
That’s how one detective linked the evidence to the man who was eventually prosecuted. Video cameras, the older kind, have an identifying mark on the tape. It was traced to the person who purchased the camera.
“The Angel of Maine killings.”
His nostrils flare. “I thought monikers were frowned on.”
“They are. By law enforcement.” I cross my ankles, settling back into my chair. “I’m not law enforcement. I think a moniker or nickname gives the public a way to connect—for lack of a better word—with something they can’t understand, yet fascinates them.”
Grayson’s gaze narrows. He studies me just as intently as I study him. If it’s true, and the Angel of Maine really is the man sitting here now, then I have the chance to analyze one of the most confounding psychopathic minds.
His identity was hidden from the media during the trial. An attempt to keep the press from turning him into a vigilante. I tried unsuccessfully for months to get an interview.
A thrilled buzz spikes my blood. Heated and electrifying. It’s been an even longer time since a subject excited me.
I pull out my phone and text Lacy: Cancel the rest of my appointments for today.
“So tell me,” I officially begin our introduction, “why did you refuse to see me a year ago? And why are you here now?”
The stare off continues, but I don’t really need an answer. What Warden Marks revealed about his upcoming trial is enough for me to form an educated guess.
Grayson is about to be convicted in another state—one that has the death penalty.
He wants me to save his life.
3
Visceral
Grayson
London Noble has quirks. Likes and dislikes. Fears. All the little intricate details that make up her personality. I love dissecting her.
She wears glasses instead of contacts. She braids her long dark hair, twirling it into a bun, instead of cutting it short. She doesn’t paint her nails. She always leaves one infuriating button undone on her blouse. She crosses her ankles instead of her legs. That is, until we talk about my deeds, then I watch her cross those long legs, thighs squeezed tight. She doesn’t like noise. She enjoys complication. Her smiles are rare. Her approval even harder to earn. She suffers back pain due to some injury, but pretends it doesn’t effect her. She’s petite. Practically the size of a doll compared to my six feet. Yet she allows no one to look down to her. She’s afraid of aging, becoming obsolete. But the single most interesting thing about my psychologist is this: I make her curious.
Not in a professional sense—though I’m sure that’s how it started; a small flame sparked into existence—but the deep-seated, scary curious. The kind of curious that drives good girls bad.
I’d love to tangle her up in my web and feast.
“What do you see?”
Soft, thin fingers peek around the edge of a board. On the front, a black and red ink blot splashes against white. You. “I see a butterfly.”
London lowers the board, her expression unreadable. At least, she strives for neutral. But I glimpse the irritation beneath her mask. She’s desperate to crack me. Wiggle inside my head and crawl around.
A week together, and she still doesn’t get it. There’s nothing to be found. I’m not here for myself, to resolve my psychotic tendencies. To be rehabilitated with the hopes of reentering society.
I’m here for her.
“You like games?” she asks, setting the stack of ink blots aside.
A smile curls my lips. I like playing games with her. “It depends on the game.”
“Do you see our time together as a game?”
Questions. Always tedious questions with her. She turns every reply into one. Refusing to let me inside her head. I adjust my feet, the rattle of my shackles loud in the still room. “This isn’t really our time, is it?”
Her soft brow creases. “You feel that I’m not committed to your treatment?”