Chapter 28 #2
Ignoring the man’s useless pleas, I inspect the rest of the container. A mounted wooden beam holds Roger aloft, thick metal cables support his weight, his torso cradled by a leather harness.
“It’s a hangman’s gallows,” I whisper. A simple structure, but built solid and sturdy. I walk the perimeter, studying Grayson’s trap, searching for a way to release Roger without dropping him straight into the vat.
Even if I was strong enough to shimmy the scaffold and pull him away from the tank, Grayson wouldn’t allow it. As if he’s reading my thoughts, a gear on the trap grinds, and Roger lowers closer to the surface.
“Oh, god, oh, god, fuck—” he sobs, his flabby body jiggling with his wretched cries.
“Christ, shut up. Just shut up.” I push my tangled hair out of my face. “Why don’t you walk me through this, Roger,” I say, deciding to follow the path back to the third stone. “Tell me about yourself. You’re here for a reason, just as I am. We’re in this together, okay?”
“Okay,” he concedes.
As he talks about his job at a local supermarket as a meat packer, I count the remaining stones ahead of me. There are only three. Then I gauge how many more inches Roger has until his feet hit the deadly solution. Maybe five…I can’t be sure.
Countless keys dangle from the string canopy, beyond my reach from the rocks. Follow the rules. But Grayson doesn’t abide by rules—he breaks them. He defies society’s laws. Everything with Grayson is a test.
I move down from the rock and jump, waving my hand through the air.
“What are you doing?” Roger demands.
“Hush, Roger.” I jump again and pull a key down with me.
A deep groan sounds from the gears, then Roger descends. Even lower than the previous time, he drops farther, his toes skimming the liquid. His furious shouts rake over my nerves, and I groan.
Chest heaving, I’m lost in a sea of keys, all shimmering with a mocking melody as they clang together above.
I press a hand to my stomach, the black satin binding, as I force air into my constricted lungs.
Do you think you’re above taking a life?
Grayson’s question taunts me. He chose this particular victim for a reason.
I step back onto the stone, my bare feet scratched from the maze. “Tell me about your victims, Roger.”
Beyond the shadows, I glimpse his motionless form. Without my glasses, he’s blurred at this distance, but I can read the rigid tension of his body. “Why? What do they matter?”
No denial. No remorse. What do they matter.
If this man were seated in my therapy room, I’d make a note to explore traits within the antisocial spectrum, assessing for markers indicative of psychopathy. But we’re not in my therapy room—and there’s only enough time to acknowledge that those traits exist.
“I’m a psychologist,” I say, pausing a moment before I reach for the next key. “I can help you. Well, in theory. Truthfully, I don’t actually 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,” I say to Roger, “then that psychotic man over the speaker system isn’t going to let you leave here alive. I’m not really 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, indifferent. “Maybe. Probably.”
The adrenaline has run its course, and exhaustion has depleted my patience. Even before Grayson first stepped into my office, I had already concluded that rehabilitation is not possible for the truly sadistic.
If I were given an eternity of nights to transform this man, I still would not succeed.
Somewhere in the recesses of my mind, a voice whispers that I’ve been here before, standing at the precipice. The moment I first understood I was fighting an impossible battle.
During this moment of acceptance, I broke a patient’s mind. I turned his psychosis against him and urged it to devour him—to end him.
My chest ignites, breaths turning erratic. I pull 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 and 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 embraced the moment I woke in that hospital bed. A denial I nurtured into delusion because I couldn’t—wouldn't—accept the truth.
I shift my gaze toward the tank. “Where is Micheal, Roger?”
He twists, struggling pathetically. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I blow the bangs from my eyes, hands planted on my hips, impatient. “You stole a little boy. You have him hidden somewhere. If you want me to save you, you’re going to tell me where. Is Micheal alive?”
My hand thrusts into the air, and I flick the key with a taunt.
He shouts, “Yes! All right. Yes. The boy is alive.”
I pull the key. Roger’s body is hoisted higher, and a sob of relief racks through him.
That’s all the confirmation I need that Grayson is playing according to his own rules. He’s controlling the mechanism. The keys are tied to the strings, the strings linked to the contraption, and Grayson is operating the controls. He’s in control.
We’re in control.
Roger’s life hinges on Roger alone.
If I want to save this man, all I have to do is work confessions from him. Yet there has to be a catch. Grayson has never given any of his victims a real chance.
Then I realize—I’m the catch. Grayson gave me the choice.
“Where is Micheal?” I demand from Roger.
When he refuses to answer, I reach for a key. “Wait,” he pleads. “Just wait. I’m not ready.”
“Neither were the children you stole and murdered.” I grip the cold key a yank hard.
Roger drops. His toes hit the solution, and he cries out in pain.
“Now, where are you keeping him?”
“Fuck—” He draws hit feet up, trying to hold himself above the tank. “If I tell you that, then I’m going to prison. Do you know what they do to men like me in prison?”
“Do you fear that more than death?” I challenge him. “If so, tell me. If you prefer death, I know the man behind this will grant you that freedom.”
“Freedom?” he spits the word. “You’re fucking insane.”
“That’s the second time you’ve insulted my mental state.” I hop off the rock with little to no impact to my back. I breathe in a cleansing breath. “You’re making a poor case for yourself, Roger. And you only have minutes to decide.”
Unable to hold his position any longer, his body shaking, exhausted, he lets his legs fall. An ear-splitting scream echoes through the maze as his feet plunge beneath the surface. “God, please… I don’t want to die like this.”
I move onto a stone. “How did you kill your victims?” I ask him.
His trembling breaths fogs the air around him. “Go to hell.”
Been there. I stretch onto my toes and grasp a key. The cool metal feels satisfying against my heated skin.
“Wait,” he shouts, straining to keep his grotesque feet away from the solution. “I couldn’t help myself. It’s a sickness.”
“How?” I demand.
“Shit, all right. Fuck. Okay. I choked them.” He squirms as he attempts to swing his body away from the container.
A cruel and violent memory covers my vision, and I can once again feel my father’s hands tightening around my neck. A toxic mix of dread and disgust twists into rage.
“Yeah, I choked them,” he repeats, more easily this time, as though the admission brings relief. Roger is being liberated, too.
Slowly, I close my hand around the key and pull. Again, Roger is lifted higher. He extends his legs, relief rolling through his body.
I step onto the final stone along the path. I understand how this works, even if Roger hasn’t caught on yet. It doesn’t matter how many keys dangle above my head—the key I select will always be my choice. Grayson knows me, understands me, anticipates me.
One key will free him. One key will end him.
I study the keys. All the gleaming bronze, rusted metals, shiny silver. They’re beautiful. I never admitted it—not even back then—but when I inked a key over my scar, I was branding my kill.
It was my trophy.
The canopy of blood-red string and keys plays a dark melody that resonates within my soul. No, I wasn’t born this way. I was stolen, groomed—reborn into something most people only glimpse in nightmares. I never feared the monster, because the monster was already inside me.
“I want to know where the boy is,” I demand of Roger.
Sweat streams down his shiny, balding head. “I can’t.”
“You can, and you will.” My hand wavers between two keys. The first is gold, untarnished, pristine. The second is corroded, its teeth gnarled, the silver faded and worn. A replica of the key inked into my flesh.
Grayson chose this one for me.
“What do you see when you think of Micheal? What do you feel, Roger?” My hand stretches higher into the air.
Roger summons the strength to tear at the harness. His curses litter the night as he claws at the leather. “He’s special,” he eventually says. “I watched him the longest. He’s beautiful with baby blue eyes, his fine blond hair cut into a bowl. His skin is soft and delicate.”
While he’s been lost in his memories, his underwear displays the true lack of his remorse. An erection tints the dingy material. I advert my eyes in disgust.
Still, I need to know if this man is capable of change. I force my gaze back to Roger. “Can you release him?” Not will he release him, but can he. The two words are not interchangeable to a vile person like this.
His mouth twitches with a telling micro expression as he attempts to form the words. My sight is hindered, especially in the dark, and yet he’s unable to mask his true intentions.
“Yes,” he shouts. “Okay? I will release him. Let me go, and I’ll take you to him.”
Liar.
“But what about the others?” I insist. “All the future victims you may harm. How can we trust that you’re reformed, that you’ll never hurt another child again?”
His chuckle echoes across the clearing. “Are you serious right now?” He glares down at me.
“You’re a fucking therapist. You know how my illness works.
” He releases a lengthy breath. “I can promise to try, all right? I’ll seek help.
I’ll go to the meetings. I’ll put a goddamn chastity belt on my dick.
” He fights the harness again. “Now get me the hell down from here, you fucking cunt.”
Yes, Roger has many more disorders to unearth. Woman-hating misogynist is definitely on that list. There’s no reform in his future. If he’s set free, he may do some time in prison, but he’ll be released eventually. Set loose to prey on innocent lives.
Our judicial system fails when it comes to punishing predators of children—the very lives most deserving of protection. Grayson was the victim of a monster like Roger, and so were me and my sister. Now, rehabilitation is impossible for any of us.
“What are you waiting for?” Roger yells. “Do it!”
One will free him. One is the kill switch.
I yank the rusted key.
Roger’s scream arcs over the maze as his body plunges feet-first into the tank.
He sinks to the bottom. The liquid churns and froths violently, bleeding pink at first, then a deep, sickening crimson. Pieces of flesh bob upward, bumping against the sides before floating to the surface. I won’t look away—I can’t. I force myself to watch the gruesome death unfold.
Minutes pass, or maybe it’s only seconds. The liquid thickens into a paste-like substance, too thick to discern Roger any longer.
My thoughts are a void, carved out of me and splashed across the night. I simply exist, the purest sense of acceptance melding into the natural order, my existence finally balanced.
Then I feel his arms enclose my waist.
Grayson pulls me against his chest. I lean my head back, feeling his heart beat in time with mine. His solid form embraces me as he says, “Our first kill.”