The cabin appears just over the hill, and I remember the day Mary and I found the little weathered house. We’d been hiking the woods on one of our annual retreats. A way to get away from the city and the noise and her patients. To recharge.
We stumbled on the cottage and Mary instantly fell in love. She wondered why she’d never thought about owning a property outside of the city before, and she decided she had to have it.
I stop at the wrought iron gate and glance at my pewter watch, the memory so fresh my chest burns like I’ve swallowed acid. She willed me the cabin with the condition that I had to continue to visit our place once a year.
I push the gate open. I did more than just respect her memory by vacationing here to recharge—I built a whole damn experiment to make sure her tattered and denounced reputation would one day be restored.
On the day that I publish my results, with the data and proof to back my findings, the name of the treatment will be logged as Jenkins’ Trial.
After Mary’s murder, I studied Grayson Sullivan. As sadistic as he is, I admit, he’s a fascinating subject—sort of the basis inspiration for my experiment. The way he forced his victims to face their sins, used their own crimes against them. The psychology of it was appealing. I asked myself how I could utilize his method. How could I make the unfeeling thing feel?
Of course, he made a fatal mistake when he made my sister one of his victims. I can’t undo that, but what Sullivan stole by taking her life too soon from this world, I’ll restore. I’ll give her a strong legacy. I owe her that much.
As I reach the chamber, the silence is worrisome. Blakely has remained bound and chained to the wall, but allowed to move freely within the confines of the room behind the curtain. I provided clothes, food, water, and even her preference in coffee. No utensils or any sharp objects, of course, but there is a compost toilet behind another privacy curtain. A cot set up in the corner and blankets.
I’ve given her every comfort and yet, as I slide the canvas aside, I find her in the same position that she’s been in since I released her from the gurney. Seated on the cot, her back to the wall, legs tucked close to her chest.
I stand in her line of sight. “The evenings are becoming warmer,” I say.
“I wouldn’t know,” she rebounds, but at least she’s responsive.
“Would you like to?”
This intrigues her and she looks up to meet my eyes. “You mean, you’re willing to risk your feral animal escaping?”
I deserve her ire, but sarcasm has no place between us any longer. I remove the keyring from my jeans and walk toward her. “There’s no reason to mask your lack of emotions, Blakely. Cynicism worked well for you before, but I’d like to meet the real Blakely now.”
Her mouth tips into a defiant smirk. “You couldn’t handle her.”
“That may be so,” I admit. As I crouch to get near the cuff on her arm, I hold her gaze. “You could overpower me—” I insert the key into the lock “—and you might make it far enough where I couldn’t find you, but you’d most likely die of hyperthermia before you ever reached another living soul.”
I turn the key, and the lock springs open.
Her eyes narrow on me. “We’re not in the city,” she reasons.
I unlock the other shackle and slip my keys into my pocket before removing the cuffs. I notice the red rings marring her skin from the restrains, and I cup my hand around her delicate wrist.
“We are not in the city,” I confirm, as I rub my thumb over the tender welts lining her skin. “I have some ointment to treat this.”
She slips out of my grasp. “Where are we, Alex?”
I rise to my feet and offer her my hand. “We’re in a safe place.”
She ignores my offer and instead climbs to her feet on her own. She’s wearing a pair of jeans that I was successful in selecting her size and one of my long-sleeved T-shirts. Seeing her in my shirt does something to me…it’s so intimate, like something a girlfriend would do after spending a night together.
I rub the back of my neck and look away. “I’ll show you.”
I lead her through the lab toward the metal door, where I unlock the bolt chaining the slider bar. This is the only access to the outside. Blakely won’t be given a tour of the cabin. Too many personal effects. Too many questions.
I push the door open and walk ahead of her up the concrete staircase. As I reach the hatch door, I shove it open and it slams against the ground with a bang that disturbs the silence. Slowly, the sounds of night greet our ears. Crickets, cicadas, the distant movement of the river.
Blakely inhales deeply. “I could smell the water.”
“Hyperosmia,” I say, turning to watch as she glances around the dark woods. We’re buried in the heart of the forest, shrouded by ancient pines and towering mountain peaks. “You have an extremely heightened sense of smell. That’s located here”—I point to the middle of my head—“in the parietal lobe.”
“Noted,” she says, but she’s distracted by her surroundings. No doubt her busy brain is trying to figure out what part of the state she’s in and how to hatch an escape.
There are no tire treads to denote a vehicle anywhere nearby. I make sure to park the truck half a mile away in a remote location. Well, it’s all remote around here. The nearest town is over fifty miles away, and it’s small. If you flew over it in a plane, you’d never know it existed. My cabin is sunk at the basin of Devil’s Peak.