She shrugs and quips, “You just give them bullets with names on them.”
“Most attorneys would argue that’s an artistic choice of medium. I could’ve written it on paper, or wood, or painted it on cotton canvas, or used chalk to write it on the floor.”
“How do you solve the cases?” she asks. “I’ve been trying to figure it out.”
I tap on my head. “I’m a smart person. Maybe a bit smarter than the average criminal.”
“Are you like a genius or something?”
I put my finger on the nose and grin. “I’ve been called gifted a time or two. It didn’t make me very likable in school. But that doesn’t matter right now.”
She flashes me a lopsided grin. “You don’t think you’re going to get caught?”
“No, I know one day I’m going to get caught, but it’s not going to be today.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“Because you’re going to help me.”
“You’ve got me locked in some shed, in the middle of God knows where, and you think the police aren’t going to come looking for you?” She chuckles. “Or rather, looking for me? I just finished shooting a pregnant woman.”
I smile and lean back. “Retribution?” I ask, assessing the aftermath. “You’ve supported my hypothesis. You’re the twelfth one.”
She takes a seat on the couch and rests her elbows on her thighs. “Do I get a prize for completing the dozen?”
“No prize, but I’m offering an escape.”
“An escape?” she scoffs and throws her head back. “Kace is going to hunt me down and put me behind bars. He’s not going to rest until he finds me.”
“I can help you hide.” A friend would do such a think, I mull the thought over.
“What?” Her eyes dart over my whole body.
“I can give you a new identity. New name, new look. Plastic surgery does wonders for people in hiding.”
“You want me to run away with you?”
I click my tongue and place my hand over my heart, touched at the compliment. “Your symmetrical features are pleasant on the eye, but I prefer solitude.” Perhaps a friend is pushing my own comfort zone.
She bobs her head and looks around the room. “Yep. In a dusty shed.”
“I’m not going anywhere. I have things to do here and an experiment to finish. What I’m offering is a mutual exchange. You get away with murder and get a new life, and I keep my identity secret. But you don’t have much time to figure it out.”
“So you can continue to kill people without anyone interfering?”
“I’ve never killed anyone.”
“No,” she says sarcastically. “You just orchestrate and manipulate.”
“Maybe I should clarify some things.”
She waves her hand in the air before slapping her thigh. “Go right ahead. You’re in control here. If I try to run out that door, you’ll shoot me. Not that it would matter.”
“I don’t own a gun,” I confirm to put her at ease. “So if you want to run, I’ll open the door for you. But where are you going to run to? Your home is a crime scene, and they’ll find you anywhere you go.”
“And you want me to let you go on killing people?”
“I’ve never whispered in someone’s ear or pushed them to kill. All I’ve done is give them information; a private detective could’ve done the same thing.”
“You prey on people who are broken. You use them.”
“Investors, lawyers, CEO’s, teachers. Name one profession that doesn’t use flaws for profit?” I give her time to try and come up with one and then happily shake my head. “It’s hard to find one, because part of success is knowing how to utilize people’s strengths and weaknesses. Therapy is about working on those flaws—or what you perceive to be flaws.”
Her eyelids twitch as she says, “No, it’s not.”
“Have I not helped you?” I ask. “Minus your husband’s infidelities and your spat, I helped you laugh again, work again, and live again. You communicated, ate together, wore makeup. Have I harmed you in any way? Did I tell you to kill anyone?"
“No, but you manipulate people.”
“No, never. I’m not here to debate what you deem good practices.” I hold a finger in the air, which signals for her to look at her own ringless finger. “Kace used your weakness—your drive for power—to get you into that Pregnancy Center. Frank used you too.”
“You use people.” The tone of her voice lacks the oomph it possessed earlier.
“Is that illegal? All my subjects are of sound mind, and everyone consents to my study. There’s an option to check if you don’t want to be included. It’s in the document you signed before entering my office, and I only choose people who are conscious of right and wrong.”
“Murderer’s loopholes,” she mumbles.
I jot down the idea on a sticky note and drop it in the inspiration jar. “That’s a great title.”
Her eyebrows knit together as she flattens her palms on her thighs. “Why do you need more time?”
Replacing the lid on the jar provides me a moment to think. Too much information and she can run with it straight to the police. Too little might provide the same outcome.
“Okay.” I pull out the data from my experiment, from the shelf with all my mother’s books, and hand it to her. “The higher the ‘n,’ the more reputable the outcome.”
The science log flips open, and she asks for clarification with a furrowed brow.
“Sample size of experiment, that’s what ‘n’ stands for. On the first pages, you’ll find a running log of each subject.”
“This is a kill log?”
“It’s a scientific journal!” I correct and amble toward her. She had not yet noticed it resembled the journal I gave her to write in—the same journals which are on the shelf, all lined up in order and numbered. “None of those people are dead, at least not by unnatural causes.”
She flips the book horizontally to view the chart spread across the pages. “There are one hundred numbers. You want to find one hundred people?”
“Ideally, I’d find more. The higher the number, the better to estimate the statistical probability.” I point out her name on the sheet of paper, followed by age, sex, score, profession, start date, and date of completion, with a column for time, in hours, from bullet to revenge, if applicable.
“Data,” I say, as I grab a pen from the desk and hand it to her. “Three hours. Write that down for me on your sheet?”
“You only had twelve victims.” She shakes her head and looks up at me for answers. “You have over fifty bullets given out, and some have numbers indicating revenge. How many bodies are we looking for?”
“Since when does revenge have to end in death? You can hurt someone without causing any physical harm. You said so yourself, didn’t you?” My gaze cuts to the book to locate n=29. “Sample twenty-nine. She’s currently sleeping with the man who killed her husband and son, isolating him from his family. His eldest son is on drugs, which she happily supplies for him. Preliminary conclusion: women tend to be much more imaginative in their ways of revenge. More symbolical even.”