Darkly, Madly Duet

by Trisha Wolfe

I’m not here for myself, to resolve my psychotic tendencies. To be rehabilitated with the hopes of reentering society. I’m here for her.

You’re really seeking to understand why you’re so drawn to it. Which is far more interesting.”

“It’s never against their will. Their choices led them there. They’re responsible and should be held accountable for their actions. I only provide a resolution. I offer them a final choice, a way to redeem themselves, which is more than any god would grant them.”

One of her sins: seduction.

“Where do you feel you belong, Grayson?”

Oh, if she only knew how loaded that question is. But it’s not my purpose for why I’m here; this isn’t about my story. This is about her. Where she fits into the puzzle. It’s time we start peeling back her layers.

“With you, Dr. Noble. I belong right h...

She’s the answer to every serial killer on death row—their angel of mercy. But beneath that façade, a devil lurks.

and yet, her name kept coming to me, a chant my own damned soul recognized as kindred.

All I know for sure is that we have a story.

Ours is not a love story—we’re too volatile, too explosive for monotony. No, our story comes with a warning. Beware.

“None of us are powerless. Choice is the most powerful thing in this world. Everyone has a choice.”

We are each other’s inevitability—a certainty that no amount of chains and bars and guards will prevent.

I release the mounting anger with a forceful exhale. Tomorrow. We have an infinity of tomorrows.

Grayson is a sadist.

“A Judas Cradle,” I breathe.

Grayson is extremely intelligent. His file states genius. With an IQ of 152, he sees the world differently than the average person. He sees people differently. He sees me differently.

Grayson recording his “sessions” with his victims presents a unique opportunity to peel back the layers and study his impulses. This is what I tell myself as I sit through hours of footage,

Going deeper still, why does he have this desire to punish so ruthlessly? What drives his purpose? Where does it stem from, and when did he first act on the impulse? An image of the scars crossing his scalp flits through my thoughts. Torture. Self inflicted, or was he abused?

The accent I hear on occasion that hints to an Irish heritage. Those piercing ice-blue eyes that stare down to my marrow. His masculine scent that pervades our sessions. His voice—the way the raspy gutturalness makes my thighs squeeze together to offset the ache.

My attraction goes deeper than fascination…to some part of myself that yearns for his cruelty. He’s free in a way that most people only dream—a dark and unforgiving dream where the rules don’t apply.

A death row serial killer with media presence makes for an interesting case study, yes—but it’s more than that. He has answers.

If I hadn’t been studying him so closely, I might assume it’s a sexual perusal—but this is how Grayson reads people. He gives them a smidgen of what they desire in order to analyze their tells.

His eyes travel over my body again and, this time, I feel their intrusion.

and I allow a small smile to slip free.

Watch his tongue travel over his bottom lip. A grin hikes the corner of his mouth.

“But aren’t you dying to know what I think you crave?”

As a whole, people are selfish and tiresome. I simply prefer to analyze them rather than pursue an intimate relationship.”

I soon realized it was easier to co-exist with my demons rather than expel them.

“Do you feel I’ve lied to you?” I ask. “No,” he says. “I don’t think you lie to your patients. I think you lie to yourself. Especially about your fears.”

“What are you trying to protect yourself from?” “What?” “You said lying to yourself is a defense mechanism. I want to know what you’re trying so hard to avoid. What do you need protection from?”

“Who hurt you?” He rises from his seat so quickly, I react, retreating as his chains snap taut.

“You are not a game,” he says through clenched teeth.

“Lying to you wouldn’t benefit me. I want you to experience the truth.”

“It’s unfair that you know my secrets,” he says, “and I don’t have any of yours.”

“It’s why I’m here,” he continues. “Why you chose me over the drooler in the waiting room. You made a choice. One that benefits you. Just admit it. Admit that you were born as free as me so we can move past this meaninglessness and find out what we’re really capable of.”

“I want to live. And I want you.”

“I can feel your excitement,” Grayson says, smile stretching. “Or is that arousal?” He sniffs the air, making me flush.

As Grayson passes, his hand grazes mine. Just a light brush that could be perceived as an accident, but the directness of the touch, the point of contact, heats my skin. The stroke of his finger along the side of my palm is powerful enough to seize all my senses. It was no accident. I shut the door and cup my hand over the spot he touched.

Being here is like being back home, and I’m biding my time just like I did there. Nothing stays the same. Change is the one constant you can depend on.

A smart man once told me the wait for something to happen can drive a sane man mad. And this place is full of madness. Since I don’t have to worry about going crazy, I’m waiting.

The newspaper clipping of her attack on the courthouse steps. The first day we met, and my confirmation that London needs me.

I’m a man obsessed. I knew she would test me.

The more I looked into her, the more I saw her franticness, and then I scented it on her in her office. I can smell her now, that sweet scent of lilacs mixed with her arousal. Anyone that desperate for answers has demons to feed.

If I’m obsessed, then she’s infatuated—an explosive combination.

I’m not alone.

I won’t accept anything less than her; she’s my other half.

The cell goes dark, and I slip the image under my pillow. I run my hands over my forearms, tracking ink that cannot completely disguise the scars. My reminder that secrets can’t stay buried. London wants answers, I can give them to her. The only question is how far she’s willing to go to get them.

“I’m attracted to him.” But it’s more than that…

“I identify with him,” I say. That I’m referring to Grayson is understood. “My patient is the Angel of Maine. He kills ruthlessly. Without mercy, though his moniker suggests otherwise. And there’s not a bone in my body that can find fault with his logic. All his victims were deserving of punishment. And I identify with him, because I’m glad they’re dead.”