It was pure chance that Mary and I stumbled across it. The peak isn’t a popular hiking location. The place was abandoned and, when Mary inquired about the purchase, she discovered it was owned by a small bank branch and had been foreclosed on generations ago.
Unease crawls beneath my skin as I patiently wait for Blakely to either run or accept the situation. When she looks at me and says, “Show me the water,” I exhale the tension from my chest.
She’s smarter than the others, more cunning. I would never have chanced letting another subject outside the basement, and I shouldn’t dare this with her, but then they weren’t as crucial to the experiment as Blakely. It’s detrimental to her mental health that she’s allowed some independence, otherwise she’ll wither like a flower cut from its stem.
Thinking of Blakely as a soft, delicate flower makes me smile. She’s neither soft nor delicate. As if to mock me, a sharp and tangible memory of the feel of her skin as I held her wrist assaults me, and my jaw tightens.
“This way.” I trek up the ravine, my thoughts back on the task.
This moment is vital for Blakely and the experiment. She must learn to trus
t me, and I know that may never happen. I took a huge risk when selecting her, so it has to work. There is no option for failure with her.
But, just in case, I carry a syringe in my boot. Blakely has no history of violence, but her psychopathy will allow her to kill without remorse, especially if she feels threatened. This is what I must never forget, no matter how charming or docile she makes herself appear.
The nighttime forest obscures the worn, moonlit path, but I have the way memorized, and soon the glimmering view of the narrow river opens up around us. Nestled between trees and rolling rock crags, a small body of water with a thin, rocky beach juts ahead of us.
Blakely takes in the sight, her arms crossed over her chest for warmth.
“How long since you’ve been outside of the city?” I ask her.
Her shoulders tense at the interruption of her thoughts. “We’re not having a conversation,” she says, her voice monotone. Silence settles between us for a long beat. Then: “Years. I can’t remember.”
I assumed as much. Her dedication to work and her need for a routine doesn’t allow for exploration. Though she may feel at times an urgency for change, she’d simply switch occupations or lovers, or move to a new location, resuming the same habits that she’s learned are safe.
That’s why the psychopath makes for an exceptional serial killer. It’s not just the lack of empathy or need for adrenaline to mimic a surge of feelings; it’s the ease at which they adapt and replicate routine.
They need it to survive.
Blakely eases out onto the gray beach, her booted feet moving over loose rocks dexterously, as she maneuvers toward the tranquil water. She’s quiet for a long stretch, and I simply watch her.
A light breeze travels through the ravine and touches the strands of her hair, feathering blond layers along one shoulder. I recall when I first saw her at the bar, my breath stolen from my lungs, my chest tight and desperate for oxygen as she stole all vital essence from the room. She was an ethereal creature then, and she’s the most ethereal goddess now. Bathed by the moonlight, she so painfully beautiful my bones ache.
“You weren’t on vacation, were you?” she asks suddenly.
Awakened from my trance, I clear my throat. “Is it important?”
“I’d like the truth. So, yes.”
“No,” I confess, keeping myself honest. “I wasn’t on vacation. There was no days off. I’d been terminated from my position in the lab a year ago.”
Blakely nods sagely, as if making some connection.
“How many times have you done your procedure?” she asks suddenly, awakening me from my trance. “On how many people?”
The sacred moment interrupted, I remove my glasses and use my shirt to wipe the lenses clean. “There have been five subjects before you.” I decide honesty is the best way to begin to establish trust.
Drawing her arms tighter around her chest, she shelters herself from the cool night. She doesn’t look at me. “How many times have you failed, Alex?”
“Every subject before you has met with unsuccessful results.”
She whirls around to face me. “Unsuccessful results,” she repeats. “Where are they? Where are these failed experiments…your subjects?”
I release a leaden breath from my lungs, then take a step closer to her. “They’re expired.”
My meaning is clear, and yet she doesn’t react. Blakely holds my gaze with a severity that would make a weaker man cower.
Finally, she says, “And when you fail with me—?”