I’m not the same quick, easy, direct woman. I second-guess every thought and decision, my emotions and brain at war with each other.
I feel fucking crazy, and I wonder if this is how women feel all the time. Questioning themselves, analyzing every damn thought, doubting their every choice.
If so, they have my fucking sympathy. No wonder most of my revenge-seeking clients were women.
A low knock sounds at the door. Two slow, light raps that ratchet my heart rate. I walk to the entrance and, rolling my shoulders back, slip into a new frame of mind and open the door.
Dr. Noble looks exactly like her professional picture online. Long dark hair braided over one shoulder. A sophisticated yet sexy black pencil skirt suit. Black-rimmed glasses. Refined and polished. Beautiful.
“Blakely Vaughn?” she asks with a serious expression that states why she’s here.
I nod once. “Thank you for meeting with me, Dr. Noble. Please, come in.” I step aside to allow her access.
As she enters the suite, she sets her leather handbag—Prada, I note—on the entryway table. “I prefer if you call me London. What we’re about to discuss negates the need for formalities and polite etiquette.”
I close the door. “Fair enough.” I head straight for the marble table and take a slug of wine, then raise the bottle toward her in offer. “Need a glass?”
A smile flits across her delicate lips. “I like that you inquire if I need instead of want. Very decisive. Says a lot about you.”
In true shrink fashion, she doesn’t actually answer the question. I pour her a big glass. “Analyzing me already.”
She shrugs, unapologetic. “That’s who I am.” She accepts the wine. “So, who are you, Blakely?”
I set the bottle down with a resounding clink against the marble. “That’s a damn good question.”
Head canted, she studies me with drawn eyebrows. Then she takes a sip of wine before she seriously begins. “You were born a psychopath.”
“Yes. A rather happy one.”
“This doctor…” She moves toward the sofa, places her drink on the end table, and unbuttons her blazer before taking a seat. “I hesitate to regard him as such, but you said he’s a biomedical scientist. He develops cures for diseases.”
I inhale a deep breath. “Yes.”
London crosses her legs slowly as her gaze assesses me. “He found your psychopathic nature to be a disease. And he…cured you.”
“Yes,” I say in confirmation.
“What you’re claiming is impossible.”
“And yet, here I am. The product of the good, unhinged doctor.” Smile tight, I add, “Because Grayson Sullivan murdered his sister.”
“Interesting.” Her expression is neutral, revealing no hint as to how the mention of her tormentor’s name affects her.
In my email to her, I stated one of Grayson’s victims was linked to Alex, but I didn’t use any detailed descriptors or names. I’m still hesitant to give too much away now, but what I need can only be gleaned by an equal exchange of information.
“I’m sure you didn’t have me fly across the country just to recount what I ‘hypothetically’ relayed in email.” I take the seat across from her and mimic her body language. Woman to woman. “And I didn’t fly across the damn country to recount it, either. I need to find the person who did this to me. And when I do, I need to know what makes him tick.” I suppress a dark smile at my Alex pun.
She rubs the side of her palm, deep eyes regarding me. It’s unnerving, the way she holds my gaze. Most people make eye contact then look away. It’s rude to stare into a person’s eyes too long. This is one of the first things I taught myself, so as not to make others feel uncomfortable.
Now I understand what it feels like to be regarded by a callous stare.
“And you believe I can somehow help you find this man,” she states.
“I know you can.”
“I’m not sure how.”
“Alex’s sister,” I say, steeling my nerves to hold her intense stare. “You studied Sullivan. You were close to him. You know about his victims. Which means, you have information not known to the public about Dr. Mary Jenkins.” I lift my chin higher. “I need this information.”
For the first time since London entered the room, her mask slips and her features betray her. The widening of her eyes, the slight part of her mouth. This victim affects her. Maybe because Mary was a doctor, a sort of professional colleague. Maybe because of the gruesome manner in which Mary was murdered. A victim of her own barbaric lobotomy practice.
“Unfortunately, I was never given much information on Dr. Jenkins,” she says, takes a sip of wine. “But let’s drop all pretense, Blakely. Finding Alex is only partly why we’re here. There’s something else you want, and I’m not sure why you think I can help you get it.”
Anxiety worms beneath my skin, my patience thin. How much of the truth can I reveal to her? Confess that I killed a man? That I can’t turn myself in because, selfishly, I don’t want to wither away in prison? That I have to correct this defect inside me first so I can do hard time?
Just the absurdity of my thoughts makes me nearly crack into hysterical laughter.
“He tortured me,” I say instead. “He experimented on my brain. He injected me with…I don’t even know what he put inside me, and now I’m this…” I trail off, frustration polluting my thoughts. “I’m this other person.”
London leans forward. “Take three deep breaths.”
A manic laugh slips free, the insult sharp. “I never used to have to take fucking breaths.” But I do. I pause long enough to breathe and compose myself. “I don’t even recognize myself. It’s like waking up in someone else’s skin every day, and it’s disorienting, terrifying. I don’t just want to find him; I want to carve out his damn heart. Douse him in gasoline and set him aflame.” Make him suffer the fire that should’ve been his fate. My hands curl into fists. “I want revenge.”
Even as I confess this, as I voice my desire to the universe, I feel the omission in my words. And Dr. Noble is good at what she does—she senses it, too.
“Passion is a complex beast,” she says, her voice resolute. “It can present in many different forms. Anger, fear, desperation, vengeance, obsession. Love.” Her gaze traps mine. “And the tricky part is, it’s usually a combination of all.”
My nails bite into my palms. The confusing and complicated emotions I feel for Alex twists me daily. I don’t need this woman pointing them out. I don’t need another doctor fucking with my head. I know I’m sick.
He made me sick.
Incensed, I shake my head. “I have one motive, and that’s to force him to correct the damage he’s caused and reverse the procedure, and if he can’t—” I shrug, letting the silence underscore the blank. “The world has no use for a monster like him.”
“You want him to reverse the treatment,” she says.
“More than anything.”
“What if that’s not a possibility? What then?”
“Then, like I said. I’ll do what I do best. Take my revenge.”