Chapter 24
CAGE
GRAYSON
To truly break a person of their will, you have to first sever their hold on life itself. London knows this all too well, employing this very tactic with her patients, gradually stripping them, piece by fragile piece, of all hope.
It’s hope that gives a person the strength to endure, to fight, to overcome.
To live.
Take that away, and you can reduce a person to a malleable shell, ready to be molded and reshaped. I don’t have to agree with the psychology to appreciate the process. It’s brilliant.
I suppose it appeals to the puzzler in me, the construction more gratifying than the destruction—and that’s why London and I are a perfect match.
Together, we’re complete, a whole.
For years, I’ve been missing a critical element in the process.
Torture isn’t enough; physical pain alone merely results in a wish for death.
The ultimate breaking point is psychological—the annihilation of the mind.
Like a twig bent beyond its threshold, the slightest external pressure will snap it clean through.
Admittedly, she’s the one who opened my eyes to this revelation. I tend to stick to what I know, the tried and true methods of my craft. Yet in London’s presence, I find myself lacking.
In time, she’ll grow to appreciate my methods just as I admire hers.
I turn the key, locking the cell door, and pocket my key ring. London is curled up in the center of the cage, looking beaten, defeated—but I know better. She’s dressed in one of my T-shirts and a pair of my sweats, beautifully disheveled.
I didn’t build this dungeon specifically for her. I built it knowing that one day it would fulfill a purpose. A perfectly twisted design orchestrated by fate itself.
“Did your father allow his victims to have a light?” I ask her, relighting the candle that snuffed out during our struggle to put her in the cage.
Her deep gaze narrows, defiant as she says, “How long have you been planning to take me?”
I crouch down and slide a plate of food beneath the bar. Spaghetti and two pain pills. “Take them sparingly,” I tell her. It’s not the freshest meal, but I can only store nonperishables.
“Answer me, Grayson. When did you make this fucking cage for me?”
“London, not everything is a conspiracy against you. That’s the paranoia kicking in.
” I tap my temple. “I welded this cell because I’m a welder.
I’ve spent time here myself, staring at the bars, getting accustomed to them.
” I trail my fingers over the cold iron, then meet her eyes through the space between.
“I endured a year incarcerated in solitary confinement. I’m very patient.
I’ll wait for you for as long as it takes. ”
She pushes herself upright, swiping her tangled hair from her face. “Then at least tell me where we are.”
“That’s not what you’re really asking. Knowing where we are won’t help you.
” I settle onto the floor across from her, making myself comfortable.
“You want to know the chances that you’ll be found, that the authorities are coming.
But this house isn’t in my name. Technically, it doesn’t belong to anyone who can be traced back to me.
It’ll be a long time before you’re discovered. ”
A tiny spark of hope ignites in her eyes. I’ve given her just enough to keep going, to endure. She’ll need that to survive her dungeon.
“I have to get rid of the car.” I stand and brush down my jeans. It’s liberating to be out of the orange jumpsuit, feeling like myself again. “I can’t risk it being spotted. That would be irresponsible.”
“Don’t leave me.”
Her voice is small, fragile. Kneeling on the floor, surrounded by wrought-iron bars, she looks helpless, almost lost.
Another one of her sins: deceit.
She’s mastered the art of duplicity. To fool others, she has to live her lies. As a narcissist, she even believes them. Like a dam holding back reality, her world depends on falsehood. When London truly reaches her breaking point, only then will the dam give, and the truth rush free.
I don’t have an infinite amount of time, however. I’m not deluded enough to think that this won’t fail absolutely. Her mind is her strongest weapon. And again, that’s her specialty, not mine.
She needs a push.
Bracing my hands on the bars, I say, “It’s strange what impacts us, what defines us. It’s never the good parts from our lives.” I lock onto her eyes. “It’s what guts us.”
She rises to her knees, keeping herself smaller, the illusion of submission. She’s truly an expert.
I smile.
“I’ve been gutted, Grayson,” she says, a slight tremble to her voice. “My life is no fairy tale. This punishment you’re inflicting on me…I’ve already suffered. Any sins I’ve committed, trust me, I’ve more than paid for them.”
“Have you.”
Her eyes narrow on me. “You know I have.”
I lean my forehead against the cool bars.
“Your patients suffered, too. Granted, they were sick individuals. Where we’ve been able to channel our sickness, monitor our compulsions and hide in plain sight, they’re simply not as talented.
They lack impulse control. But that’s where the good doctor comes in.
” I give her a knowing smile. “You’re the best in your field. ”
She climbs to her feet now. “Go to hell, Grayson.”
A dark chuckle slips free. “Which one, baby?”
A disgusted expression twists her pretty features. “I dedicated my life to helping patients that society would rather see executed, exterminated.” She clears her hair from her eyes. “No matter how unlikely rehabilitation became, I still fought for them.”
“You have a bit of Florence Nightingale syndrome, don’t you? Falling a little in love with every patient, seduced by the give and take, sacrifice and consume. Like a toxic, love sick couple. Only for you, it’s all about the take.”
She regards me cautiously. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“You’re an artist, London, your therapy practice like a dance. A bloody ballet where you warp and break the minds of your patients like a dancer’s body, choreographed cruelty. You devour their gifts, and when they’re used up and broken, you discard them to the nearest mental ward.”
She stands perfectly still, eyes gauging, calculating. She was never the prey.
She’s the hunter.
“You fabricated an elaborate story for me, Grayson.” She tilts her head. “None of which is real.”
I cock my head to mimic her. “When did the headaches start?”
Her eyebrows draw together in confusion.
“I bet they’ve been happening more frequently lately. Getting worse, lasting longer.”
“I’ve worked harder this year than at any point in my career,” she says evenly. “Of course, I’m going to be taxed physically and mentally for that.”
“Oh, you’ve been working hard for damn sure. Tell me about Thom Mercer.”
She frowns. “What about Thom?”
“Serving time inside prison, you meet a lot of inmates, some of whom were your patients,” I say, watching a trace of unease flicker across her face. “Thom was especially disturbed. The things he talked about…” I tsk. “If you hadn’t already destroyed him, he may’ve ended up as one of mine.”
“What are you even saying? Thom Mercer was committed to Cotsworth’s psychiatric unit with a schizoaffective disorder, stabilized successfully on medication. He was one of my most acclaimed case studies.”
“Who hanged himself with his bedsheet.”
Her face pales in horror. “Why are you doing this,” she demands, her voice drained of emotion. “Why are you lying.”
“Come on. You know lying isn’t a part of my disorder.”
She breaks eye contact, starts pacing the cell. “No, but creating an elaborate disaster is. I won’t fall victim to this. I won’t become your next disaster.”
“Oh, London.” I love the way her name tastes, like fresh lilacs. “Why do you think I was so tempted from the start? You came to me as a beautiful disaster already.”
She rushes the cage, wild, gripping the bars and throwing herself against them violently. Her prison rattles, but I stand unmoved, watching as the iron holds against her fury.
“Fuck you. Fuck you—” she breathes out, over and over, a desperate chant. She sags against the cage, her grasp on the bars barely holding her upright.
I place my hands over hers. “There’s only one way out,” I say, tracing my thumb over her trembling fingers. “You’re smart enough to figure out how.”
Her dark gaze finds mine, a hint of vulnerability there. “Did what happened before, between us… Did it mean anything to you?”
I press my lips to her fingers, inhaling her scent. “It meant everything.”
“Then you can’t do this, Grayson. Disempathetic personalities don’t torture the people they care for. If you truly believe you love me, you’d protect me from your illness—not subject me to it.”
A bitter laugh escapes. “But that’s a myth, right?”
Her brows crease softly. “And I’m a liar, right?”
I reach through the bars and grasp the back of her head, dragging her close and sealing my lips over hers. I hold her there, relishing the shudder that pulses through her body, feeling her breath against my mouth, before I finally let her go.
“Because I do love you, I’m going to give you something I’ve never offered anyone before.”
Her eyes widen as I back away from the cage. She clings to her hope the way she clings to those bars, anticipating the word freedom.
But I can’t grant her that—only she has the power to set herself free.
“Here’s your one hint, London,” I say as I pick up the candle. “What Dr. Mary Jenkins was too proud and vain to admit, you can divulge here in secret, where only the bars will hear your whispers.”
A broken, hysterical laugh falls from her mouth. “And a camcorder, right?” She sinks down beside the plate, staring blankly at the food. “I’m not like Dr. Jenkins. I didn’t lobotomize my patients.”
“No, you didn’t. That would’ve been too obvious.
You’re smarter than that, better at impulse control.
And yet, here you are, caught in a twisted web of your own design.
” I move toward the door. “I’ve been giving you the chance to admit your sins, London.
Now we’re here. It’s time to confess how you tortured your patients, how you shredded their minds.
You played god, attempting to find a cure for yourself.
Once you can admit that, then the cell door will open. ”
She looks up at me. “This is what you want me to confess?”
“Yes.”
She lifts her hands in surrender. “Fine. I confess it. Now open the fucking door.”
I pause in the doorway. “You know it’s not that simple, love.”
It’s fleeting, but panic flashes in her eyes. For an instant, real fear grips her, as she realizes she’s about to be abandoned, left alone in the dark like the girls her father held captive. Her fingers claw at her clothing, desperately seeking a loose thread. Frantic and beautiful.
“I want to see Thom Mercer’s file,” she says.
I rub the back of my neck. “That’s a hard demand to meet out here—”
“I want to see it,” she snaps.
I exhale heavily, feigning resignation. “I’ll make it happen.”
As I turn to leave, she whispers, “No, my father didn’t allow light in his cellar.” Paused outside the door, I meet her haunted stare. “He held them in the dark.”
I promised to set her free—and I fucking will. To set her free of the pain, of her crippling false humanity, she first has to face the dark. Even she knows this.
From the beginning of time, people have divided good from evil, angels from demons, gods from monsters. I don’t believe in divine beings or cosmic morality. Life is simpler than that. We are our own gods, and our own devils. Capable of pure evil and great virtue.
Each of us invents our own heavens, creates our own hells.
We choose them every day.
I douse the flame and close the door, killing the light—leaving London to battle her demons inside her personal hell.