LONDON
Trekking through a muddy creek with a convicted killer on the run is not how I imagined my life would end. And it will end. Badly. There’s no other logical outcome to this insanity. Detective Foster already has me pinned as Grayson’s accomplice, and when he locates the gun that Grayson discarded, he’ll deduce I helped him escape willingly.
I’ll be prosecuted as aiding and abetting, if I don’t end up dead.
I’m still trying to process what exactly snapped inside me the moment I put my hand in his.
I know he’s a killer. I know he’s a psychopath. I know that when his delusion is proven wrong, he’ll become even more unhinged, and I’ll most likely become his next victim.
And yet for one solitary moment, all warnings swept aside, and I wanted the clarity he’s mastered. The power to be free without shame. In retrospect, that clarity is a probable detachment side effect of his inability to process emotions…and he no longer has anything to hold him back.
And I’m going to hell for envying him.
It’s not out of a sworn doctor’s oath that I’m here with my patient; I’m not here to save him. I didn’t completely fabricate the truth on the witness stand when I condemned any likelihood that he could be rehabilitated. He’s dysfunctional on the most dangerous level.
I’m here for one simple reason: me. I’m selfish.
The draw I felt to Grayson during our first session has coaxed every choice I’ve made since. He’s not wrong about that. I’m tethered so tightly to him, I can feel him in my veins. He’s poison in my blood. I’m drunk on him.
I’m trapped within my own illusion of believing that I can resurrect my past and find some answer to free me of my father’s legacy…and I’ve officially lost my mind.
“I can’t do this,” I say, my feet dragging. My heels long gone. “I can’t keep going.”
I’m not sure if I’m talking about my emotional state or the fiery hell of pain consuming my body. Both hold equal weight at the moment, and I drop to my knees.
Grayson kneels beside me and pulls my shoulder bag over my head. “You have meds in here?”
I nod. “But they won’t help. I’m too far gone.” The only thing to help the pain at this point would be to knock me unconscious. It would be a nice detachment from this reality, too.
I notice the blood staining his soaked shirt as he rummages through my purse until he finds painkillers. He thumbs out two and feeds them to me, forcing my mouth open. “Chew them,” he orders.
I’m not cognizant enough to argue. I break each pill in half with my teeth and swallow the bitter chunks until the pills are dissolved. “You’re hurt.”
He doesn’t acknowledge the wound on his shoulder. Instead, Grayson scoops me into his arms, carrying me against his chest like some hero.
A mock laugh tumbles out. “Most women end up with men like their fathers. I used to judge them pretty harshly. I guess I’m no different.”
He doesn’t remark as he wades through the shallow stream.
“Do you have any idea where you’re going?” I demand.
“Yes,” he finally says. “There.”
I angle my neck to see a shopping complex abutting the creek. The shops are remodeled, multicolored townhomes. “I don’t think we’ll get the best customer service. I’m sure our faces are plastered all over the news by now.”
“We’re not shopping.” He treads up the bank and sets me down. “Stay here.”
As if I have a choice. Liquid fire threads every muscle. Nausea setting in.
Run. The thought assaults my head, and I’m seconds away from talking myself into it when I hear a car engine turn over. He’s stealing a car. Of course he is. It’s the only way we’re getting out of the state in his estimated timeframe.
I close my eyes and count to ten.
I block out the pain and my desire for Grayson, and try only to think of the aftermath. When we’re no longer running, what then? If I can’t walk away from him on a rooftop with the world poised to destroy us, how will I be strong enough to deny him…anything?
In every dysfunctional relationship, there is typically one codependent partner. I have to decide right now who is in control: me or him.
“Let’s go.”
Grayson’s strong arms surround me, then I’m again swept up and carried in a direction only he knows. The car door of an outdated Ford Taurus is ajar, the engine running. He places me in the passenger-seat and buckles me in.
The chilly night air blankets us in enough darkness to shroud our getaway, and I give in to the sparse comfort of it. We’re alone. I’m tired of fighting the inevitable.
I close my eyes.
An intense spike of pain rouses me awake.
I try to reach for my back, but my arm won’t move. Tingles bite into my hand and I groan. I peel my eyes open to see my wrists cuffed to the door handle. Panic splinters my head as I yank at the restraint.
I fear we’ve been caught, until I realize Grayson is driving. As the grogginess wears off, I take stock of my surroundings. It’s night. Headlights illuminate the dirty windshield.
“Why am I handcuffed? Where did you get them?”
He keeps his gaze ahead. “We’re almost there. And the cuffs came with my new ensemble.” He’s still dressed in the cop uniform.
I twist in the seat to face him. “That’s not what I asked. Why am I restrained, and where is there?”
He reaches between the console and grabs a bottled water. “Drink this.”
With a frustrated sigh, I jerk at the cuffs until my wrist bleeds.
“Finished?” he asks.
“Fuck you!” But suddenly thirst grips my throat. I tip the bottle with my mouth and guzzle. When I pull away, he sets the water in the cup holder. “You said you’d release me at any point.”
“I never said that.” He glances over. “I said I would release you. And I will. But we have a long way to go first.”
“I’m not a hostage, Grayson.”
“No, you’re not a hostage. You’re a hostile victim of your own prison. Once you’re free of that, you can go. But not before you pass the test.”
The way he says test ices my blood. “I won’t run. I made a choice to be here.”
“You will try to run, regardless of your choice. Everyone runs from their truth. I can’t let that happen.”
I settle back in the seat. I evaluate my state and situation. My skin is tacky and itchy with dried sweat. I’m barefoot, my legs and feet covered in dusty mud. My pain is present, but not overbearing. We’re in a stolen car.
For all intents and purposes, I look and am behaving like a captive.
I’m a psychologist who needs to act like one and reason with her patient.
“How did you get the car?” I ask.
“Right place, right time,” he says evasively. At my impatient glare, he continues. “Newer models are designed to prevent theft. Just needed to find the right model to hotwire.”
For all I’ve learned of his psyche, I realize I know nothing of the man. “Is that a trade you picked up from your childhood? Your stepfather?”
He smiles. “Not every confined space belongs to you, London. You can stop trying to shrink me. You were never the one in control.”
Heat rises to my face. Acute anger that he may be right singes my nerves. “How long have you been plotting this?”
He grips the wheel with both hands. “At first, I accepted my time. I think you refer to it as the cool down period. But then you requested an interview.”
“So it’s my fault why we’re here?”
“No,” he says, his voice low and measured. “There’s no fault. That’s like trying to blame the sky for being blue. The color doesn’t exist; it’s a phenomena made up of layers of ozone and oxygen.
“We’re just layers of molecules, our brains hardwired to make up our personalities, our identity. It’s predestined. No amount of nurture or abuse could change either one of us.”
“That’s not fact, Grayson. That’s a longwinded debate that’s been argued for decades. That’s your opinion.”
“Is it?” He looks at me. “How many years and with how many subjects have you tried to rehabilitate?”
I hold his gaze, unable to answer.
“You chose me that day in the waiting room not because you believed that maybe, just maybe, I was the answer to your question of whether it was possible. You chose me because I was your proof that it’s not.”
I shake my head. “No.”
“Yes, London. I couldn’t have planned every detail of this without your help. I’m good. Damn good and yes, intelligent—but this was a complex strategy over a long period of time that needed all the right pieces to fall into place. You enabled us.”
On some level, that’s a likely probability. As a master manipulator, Grayson figured out my weaknesses and used them to achieve his desired outcome. And I’m the vain psychologist that tried to control a volatile relationship with my patient.
I failed.
“This isn’t what I wanted.”
“It’s what you need,” he says. “You’ve been screaming into the void, demanding your answer, and the void heard you. This is predestined.”
“You are absolutely, fucking psychotic,” I say.
We turn off from the highway. After a few miles, the car bumps along a dirt road, and my anxiety grows. I try to free myself of the handcuffs again, but too soon we’re pulling into a darkened driveway.
He puts the car in Park. “We’re here.” He looks at me then.
I duck my head to see past the visor. Wooded scenery engulfs us. And in the middle of the dense trees, a large, contemporary style house graces the night skyline.
If he’s brought me to a house, then no one knows it exists. Most of my patients had furtive locations. Second homes. Trailers. Storage units. It was their kill spot. Their secret place to take their victims.
Panic ices my veins. Real panic. As the reality of my situation sinks in.
Grayson has taken me to his kill spot.
What have I done.
My breathing labors as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a set of keys. “Remember during our session when I told you how much I enjoy puzzles. There’s just something satisfying about putting the pieces together. I’ve been putting them together my whole life, searching for the one to end my suffering. You were a puzzle, London. And once the puzzle presented itself, I couldn’t not put the pieces together. You created an unknown variable in my life that I had to decipher. You were the key.”
“The key to what?”
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he moves in close to unlock the handcuffs.
“The key to what, Grayson? God, do you know how insane you sound? I never would’ve diagnosed you as delusional, but you’re making me question my integrity as a psychologist.”
He holds my wrists together. My skin stings, his tight grasp a pulsing pressure locked around my arms. He eats the distance between us, his face so close to mine I hold my breath.
“You forget I’ve tasted you,” he says, his words a hot whisper against my lips. “I’ve been inside you. I’ve felt your desperation and your longing. The pain you carry isn’t physical. You’re dying for the punishment you never got, but know you deserve.”
I blink hard. My heart constricts in my chest. “I want to leave. Now. Right now, Grayson. Let me go.”
He rests his palm on my cheek. “God, you’re beautiful.” Then his lips taste mine. Slow and tentative at first, he kisses me deeply, and I welcome it. Our movements become frenzied as I put every emotion into the kiss, begging him. When he breaks away, I say again, “Please, release me.”
He licks his lips as his gaze drags over my face. “Not happening, doc. You’ve been a very, very bad girl.”
He pulls me across the console. My bare feet kick at the door as I struggle against him. My screams tear into the night.
As he hauls me out of the car, the only sound is my frantic pleas cracking against the pines.
