I was such a conceited tool. The whole time we were together, every second where I was judging him, he was studying me, analyzing my strengths and weaknesses to use them against me.
And I let him.
“Blakely, I was hoping you’ve come to know me better than that.” He drives a hand through his hair, evidently frustrated. “Why would I go through such an arduous identification process simply to…chop you up?” His tone is mocking as he says this, as if selling my body parts would be such a ridiculous stretch compared to simply abducting me.
I adjust myself on the bed. My muscles are becoming stiff from inactivity. “Oh, I don’t know, Alex. Maybe because I don’t know you at all. Everything you let me see and know about you was a lie. You’re an even better manipulator than me.” A hollow laugh escapes. “You’re a fraud, Alex. Which makes you a hypocrite.”
He lowers his head. “You’re right. I did deceive you.” When he looks up, he’s affected genuine remorse in those beautiful pale-blue eyes. “But as you pointed out, you manipulate people in your work to achieve a specific goal. I’m no different. My goal is bigger than me and you, and requires a demanding level of commitment.”
I blow my bangs out of my eyes as I watch him, never blinking through his whole bullshit spiel. “Was your sister just as committed? Is that why she was—”
Alex moves quickly. He has his hand anchored to my jaw, fingers digging into my flesh, before I can finish my sentence. A fierce rage burns in his glare, a side of him I’ve never witnessed before. Interesting.
Jaw clenched, he relaxes his hand, detaching his fingers from my face one at a time. With purposeful movements, he releases me. “Never talk about Mary. Understood?”
I nod slowly.
He straightens his lab coat and resumes his place behind the laptop. “As I was saying, I’m highly committed to this project, and no price is too high to pay to see its completion.”
“Even death?”
The sterile room becomes heavy with his silence. His hesitation answers my question. Before, he said subjects. Plural. There have been others. Alex has taken a life. He’s a killer. That knowledge changes things between us. Where I thought he was simply a bit unhinged, he’s now unhinged and dangerous.
Keeping him calm seems to be the only logical action I can take. What’s the use in begging, in demanding that he let me go? He’s devoted months if not years to his project, and that level of devotion—of delusion—can’t be reasoned with.
My first objective is to get out of this bed. And the way to do that is with trust.
I rub the top of my hand against the scratchy material of the gurney, forcing the tube loose. Alex notices and releases a heavy breath.
“I don’t like being hooked up like a lab rat.”
“You’re not a rat, Blakely. You’re very important, and this is only temporary.” He crosses his arms. “Emotion mapping in the brain is delicate and time-consuming work. Once we have a few scans in place, we’ll start comparing the data to build your emotional map. I’ve already started coding a diagram of your brain that charts your emotional responses. The more honest you are during this process, the better.”
I try to piece together fragments of our first conversation with the contraptions in this room and what he’s saying now. A brain scanner he designed himself. His sister was murdered by a psychopath. I’m here because he identified me as a psychopath. He’s a scientist who studies and cures diseases.
You’re sick, Blakely, and I’m going to cure you.
“I’m thirsty,” I say.
Alex looks away from the screen. “Of course.” He grabs the water bottle on the cart and removes the cap. With the sure hands of a doctor, he places the rim to my mouth and tilts the bottle.
I guzzle as much as he’ll allow before he takes it away with a claim I’ll make myself sick. That was the plan, asshole. I lick my lips, and notice how he purposely averts his gaze away from that action.
He may be a devoted scientist, but he’s still a man, and men can be controlled.
“So, I’m here for you to scan the brain of a psychopath.” I reason out loud. “You want to understand…something about how the psychopathic brain works.” I glance around the room and find a door on the other side of the parted curtain. “You could’ve just asked me, Alex. For a fee, I probably would’ve let you scan my brain until your warped little scientist heart was content.”
He sets the water bottle down and removes his glasses. All pretense is dropped as a severe expression hardens his features. “Just…be patient, Blakely.” He turns toward his laptop and resumes typing.
Code and diagrams appear on one of the large monitors along the wall. The clack clack clack crawls under my skin.
“You can’t keep me chained to a gurney all the time,” I say, testing him. I need to suss out just how long he plans to hold me here. “I’ll need bathroom breaks. I’ll have to eat. Shower. Unless you plan to starve me to death or let me rot in this damn bed.”
“You will not rot, nor will you starve. That would defeat the whole purpose.”
I sink my teeth into my lip so hard I draw blood. I lick the metallic tang away. “There you go with your big purpose again. Just what the hell is your purpose, Alex? Why am I here? Just rip the fucking Band-Aid off, you narcissistic little earwig.”
He pushes the stool away from the cart and walks out of the room. Maybe he didn’t like the narcissist comment, or he’s growing tired of my questions. Good. Either way, the clacking has ceased and I close my eyes to relish the quiet.
A few moments pass and then Alex returns to the room wheeling in an archaic-looking instrument that makes my stomach bottom out.
“What the hell is that?” My voice has lost its edge.
He wheels the metal box to the end of the gurney and removes the top casing, then holds a pair of paddles aloft. “Emotion mapping is only phase one of our time together. Electroconvulsive therapy, otherwise known as electroshock, forms a cornerstone of the treatment.”
I huff a scathing breath at the absurdity. “This is insane. Don’t you think that I’ve researched psychopathy before? Listen to me, Alex. I know what I am. I’ve read all the literature, did all the web searches, and there is no cure.”
He starts to say more, and I stop him. “No. Hear me, Alex. There is no cure for psychopaths,” I stress. “What happened to your sister was a terrible tragedy. But I’m not that man. Hell, most psychopaths are not killers. You have to know this.”
He lays the paddles on top of the device. “I do know this. That’s not why we’re here. I’m not seeking vengeance. I understand you are not violent. I’m not delusional. The truth of the matter is, if Grayson Sullivan would’ve been identified early on, possibly in his adolescence, and given a treatment…then my sister might still be alive.” He walks around the bed and touches my hand. This time I recoil away.
“So you’re a humanitarian,” I say, sarcasm thick in my tone. “Kidnapping unwilling victims to undergo unethical and depraved experiments for the greater good.”
He sinks his hands into his coat pockets. “It’s the limit of time, Blakely. What I have to accomplish can’t wait for the rest of the world to approve.” He groans and takes a few steps away. “There has been no definitive research performed on psychopaths to prove or disprove theories,” he says. “On the eve of the industrial revolution, progress with the mind was stunted. Mass production took the forefront while humanitarians cited experiments on psych patients was cruel and inhuman.”