I move off the rock and jump, waving a hand in the air.
“What are you doing?”
“Hush, Roger.” I jump again and pull a key down with me.
A deep groan from the gears, then Roger descends. Even lower than the last time, he goes down, his toes skim the top. His shouts of fury ratchet my nerves, and I scream. Hands in my hair, I grip at the roots, tearing at the anxiety.
Chest heaving, I’m lost in a sea of keys, all shimmering with a mocking melody as they clang together above. There are too many.
I press a hand to my stomach, the black satin too binding, as I pull air into my tight lungs. Do you think you’re above taking a life? Grayson’s question haunts me. He chose this particular victim for a reason—why?
I step onto the stone, my bare feet blistered, stinging. “Tell me about your victims, Roger.”
Past the shadows, I glimpse his stillness. Without my glasses, he’s blurry from this distance, but I can read his demeanor, the way his rigid body planks. “Why? What do they matter?”
No denial. No remorse. What do they matter. If this man was seated in my therapy room, I’d log a note to explore the antisocial spectrum, to distinguish if there’s a particular psychopathy. But we’re not in my therapy room, and there’s only time to acknowledge that there is one.
“I’m a psychologist,” I say, taking a moment before I reach for the next key. “I can help you. Well, in theory. Truthfully, I don’t really care whether you live or die. I just don’t want your death on my hands.”
There. Brutal honesty. Wherever Grayson is, I’m sure that devilish smile tilts his lips. “If it’s true, and you’ve committed the crimes levied against you…then that man over the speaker system won’t let you leave here alive. I’m not sure there’s anything I can do to save you.”
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he shouts down at me. “Jesus—you’re just as fucked up as him.”
I shrug. Maybe. Probably. But the adrenaline has run its course, and sheer exhaustion is wearing my patience. Before Grayson ever entered my office, I was decided. Rehabilitation was not possible for the truly sadistic.
If I was given an infinity of nights to transform this man, I would not succeed.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, a voice whispers. I’ve been here before, standing at the precipice. The moment I realized it for the first time that I was fighting an impossible battle, waging a mental war with no end.
During this discovery, this acceptance, I broke a man’s mind. I turned his psychosis against him and urged it to devour him. To end him.
My chest catches fire, my breaths erratic. I drag in a lungful of cool air, dousing the burn. Now that you’ve been shown the truth, you’ll never see the lie again. You’re liberated.
Liberated. Free to speak a
nd act without shame.
“I’m not ashamed for what I’ve done,” I say, steadying myself on the rock. “I’m ashamed that I hid it from myself.” A weakness I accepted the second I awoke in that hospital bed. A denial I fueled into a delusion because I couldn’t—wouldn’t—accept the truth.
I look at the suspended man. “Where is Michael, Roger?”
He twists, struggling with no hope. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I blow my bangs from my eyes, hands anchored to my hips, impatient. “You’ve kidnapped a little boy. You have him hidden somewhere. If you want me to save you, you’re going to tell me where. Is Michael alive?”
My hand thrusts into the air. I flick the key teasingly.
He shouts, “Yes! All right. Yes. The boy is alive.”
I pull the key. Roger’s body is lofted higher. A sob of relief racks his body.
The realization that Grayson is playing according to his own rules hits me. He’s controlling the mechanism. The keys are tied to the strings, the strings attached to the contraption, and Grayson is working the controls. He’s in control.
We’re in control.
Roger’s life is dependent on Roger alone.
We give them the means to take their own life.