I can’t process a thought through the cloud of confusion. The acrid scent of seared flesh burns my nostrils. The memory of Blakely shooting me with a Taser rises to the surface of my thoughts, and I think I smile.
“Water,” I manage to croak.
Silence answers back. After a few agonizing minutes where I fade in and out of awareness, I’m doused with a splash of tepid water over my face.
I lick my lips, ignoring the burning sensation at my temples. As more of the fog lifts, I test the leather cuff around my right wrist. The seizure loosened it a fraction.
“So this is…what,” I say, hoping to keep him talking long enough to wriggle my arm free. “Punishment? The Angel of Maine is here to judge me, to turn my crimes against me?” A laugh escapes, sounding faraway in my ringing ears. This is what he does—makes his victims question themselves. Throws their sins in their face, forcing them to stare into their own black souls. “You can’t make a man suffer for actions he doesn’t regret.”
I see Grayson approach from the corner of my eye. He rolls my lab chair close to the gurney and sits. I can feel his stare on the side of my face.
“I dislike that moniker,” he says, a warning in his tone. “I’m not here to punish you, Chambers. You’re doing that all by yourself, pining after a woman who loathes you.” He releases a sardonic breath. “I’ve been watching your pathetic life for three days now, and I feel like I’m doing you a favor by putting you out of your misery.”
The mention of Blakely flares my fried nerves. “Don’t even think about her.”
He tsks. “You should never reveal your weakness so easily.”
I yank at the restraints, and the right cuff slackens even more. He didn’t tighten it down enough.
“But no, I’m not here to punish you,” he says. “I’m not that magnanimous. I don’t give a shit about how many people you’ve killed or who your victims were. I’m here to stop you from making a bigger mess than you already have.”
He flips through one of my journals and turns the page around so I can see. “It took me all of half a day to track you down. Serial killing one-oh-one: never work off of a list.”
The page he’s displaying is the list of names from Blakely’s little black book.
“If the very savvy detective working these cases links you to these murders, then he can link me.” He closes the journal. “Seeing as Dr. Mary Jenkins was your sister, one of my victims, it’s not a huge leap from one killer to the next. From you to me.” His gaze darkens. “You can understand why I can’t let that happen. I have more than myself to protect.” He stands to loom over me, and I notice the syringe in his hand. The barrel is filled with my compound. I can tell by the color and consistency.
“While you were knocked out, I read through your notes. Interesting project, curing psychopaths. All because of me. I’m flattered.” He sticks the needle in my arm, thumb poised over the plunger. “I wonder if we can reverse the process, fry your neural pathways until you’re just like me.”
Breath measured, I stare at the syringe. “You’re smart enough to know it doesn’t work like that.”
His mouth tips into a disturbing smile. “That’s disappointing. I guess we can just pump this poison in your veins and watch you swallow your tongue, instead.”
My reflexes are dull, but with strength I barely feel, I pry my wrist free of the cuff and reach under the gurney. I always have a contingency plan. In the event a subject gets loose, I keep a scalpel taped beneath the bed. I never thought I’d have to use it—but I never thought I’d be at the mercy of a deranged killer, either.
In a thwarted heartbeat, I have the razor-sharp blade held to Grayson’s neck.
Within the same beat, I feel the distinct tip of cold steel at my throat. I expel a shaky breath as Grayson holds a scalpel to my neck.
Locked in mirrored positions, we stare at one another. Waiting. Weapons gripped tight.
The water beads on my skin to mix with sweat, and a tremor rolls through my arm. I’m still too weak from the electroshock, but I won’t let him know this. “I should sever your carotid for what you did to my sister.”
Grayson merely looks intrigued. “You could, or you could thank me. She wouldn’t be in your life without me, otherwise.”
She referring to the only woman in my life that means anything now. “Said like a true psychopathic narcissist.”
I try not to let him inside my head, try to shut out his invasive voice, but his claim ignites my chest. I clench the scalpel in a tense fist, muscles strained.
“You had no other reason for taking my twin sister from this world,” I say, “from taking her from me, than your own selfish, twisted compulsions.”
“And I bet that just tears the wound wide open.”
“Give me a reason,” I demand.
Reason at least provides logic. Something I can assess, measure, comprehend.
Without reason, we’re no better than animals. Beasts that tear each other apart for flesh and blood.
He narrows his eyes curiously. “Dr. Jenkins was a parasite,” he says, his voice devoid of any emotion, as if he’s simply stating a fact. “Her ego destroyed her long before I put an icepick through her skull. But that’s not why you’re here, stalking a woman you tortured. Your lust for revenge died the moment she flew into your orbit. So put your pathetic attempt to inflate your ego away. It’s weak.”
Blood roars in my ears. Every charged cell in my body wants to destroy him.
And yet, despite my indignant response to his assertion, I’m furious that he’s right. My project stopped being about trying to avenge my sister and restore her name, and became all about my obsession with Blakely.
With forced conviction, I ease the blade of the scalpel away from his neck. A hairline bead of red remains on his skin. The overworked muscles of my forearm seize, and I drop the scalpel. It clatters loudly as it hits the floor between us.
“You at least owe me a quick death,” I say.
Amusement lights his features. “A martyr killer,” he says, lowering his own weapon. “I believe that’s an oxymoron.”
The strap across my forehead slackens as my neck relaxes. “It was never my intention to take a life.”
“Lives,” he corrects. Then he removes the needle from my arm, placing the syringe on the gurney. “After one failed attempt, you couldn’t stop.”
I don’t miss his distinction between didn’t and couldn’t. I didn’t have the choice to stop; I couldn’t have stopped the pursuit of my project for anyone.
Until her.
“It’s the ripple effect,” I say. “Theoretically, it was your actions that killed my subjects. They should be counted toward your victim pool.”
He raises his chin, watching me with stone-cold eyes. “Choice killed your subjects. Your choice.”
I turn my head away and stare at the dilapidated and stained ceiling. “So is this my punishment or confession?” I ask, my tone thick with sarcasm.
“You will find no absolution here.” Grayson rolls the chair closer and makes himself comfortable, despite his words. “You have one chance to convince me why I shouldn’t throw the switch on this crude machine and walk away, letting you fry to a crisp.”