Chapter 1
ONE
Emily
Ilook down at my sheer black tights and the pointed stiletto heels clicking beneath me as I rush down the sidewalk.
Cold air slips through a small hole near my knee, the rip spreading from all the times I had to yank them back up.
I lift my wrist, breath fogging in a pale cloud as my silver watch confirms it.
I’m late again.
I was supposed to be there at 9:00 a.m. sharp.
My oversized wool coat drags on my shoulders, its weight pressing into my chest like it knows what I’m walking toward.
The coffee in my gloved hand has gone completely cold, and the only trace of heat left is the bitter smell of coffee beans.
None of it matters now. Nothing has mattered since the file arrived on my desk.
Inside were sixty-two Polaroids. Women in their late twenties.
Sixty-two puzzle pieces positioned with chilling precision along the bare skin of their backs.
Sixty-two families have been trapped in the same unanswered nightmare since May 2008.
And the man behind it all is someone who can’t, or won’t, speak even two words.
I close my eyes and exhale once before walking toward the Halden Institute in Eureka Springs, where they transferred him last week.
My first case with a serial killer.
I take another breath and adjust my glasses. The leather of my gloves squeaks against the doorknob as sweat gathers in my palms.
I face my reflection staring back from the glass doorway.
My long blond hair falls straight down my back, catching on the collar of my coat as I move.
The belt cinched around my waist feels too tight, pulled one knot harder than it needed to be in my frantic rush to get here.
My jaw stays locked. My thin-rimmed glasses sit on my small, upturned nose, and my jade eyes catch the hallway light in a way that makes them look too bright.
My lips are full from anxious biting, flushed red against skin that seems even paler under the cold morning light.
“Emily Beckett, pull your shit together. You can do this.” The words scrape out of me, barely a whisper, but enough to make my fingers close around the handle.
I push the door open and step inside.
A guard stands posted by the entrance, and farther down the hall, two nurses lean against a desk, whispering to each other. Whatever it was, it stopped the instant they noticed me.
I force myself forward.
Their gaze tracks me the whole way, moving over me in a slow sweep that says exactly what they’re thinking: I don’t belong here.
Maybe I never will.
Before that settles in my chest, I lift my ID.
“Dr. Emily Beckett. I’m here to see patient Zayne Mercer.”
Whatever amusement they had disappeared as quickly as it appeared. One nurse hands me a visitor badge without a word, and the other one motions for me to follow.
“Thank you,” I managed, falling into step behind her.
She doesn’t respond. I don’t need conversation, but I want it. I rehearsed what I would say to the monster all night, practicing until the words blurred together and I could barely remember why I was even here.
I blink twice when we stop in front of the visitation room. Several metal tables stand scattered around, most of them empty, but one occupied.
She opens her mouth but hesitates. A breath escapes her.
“He doesn’t eat, sleep, or talk,” she says. She steps closer, lowering her voice, and whispers, “He just watches. All the time.”
I swallow hard.
She steps back and pushes the door open for me. I walk in, and before I can turn, she shuts it behind me.
The low hum of the ventilation fills the room, vibrating through the vents. The fluorescent lights flicker slowly above me, making my heart beat even faster than it did just a second before.
I step farther inside.
The room feels smaller once the door closes. Just three metal tables with five chairs. All arranged like they are waiting for someone, anyone, to sit. And at the very back, chained to the floor by a cuff around his ankle, sits the man whose murders have paralyzed an entire state.
Zayne Mercer.
His head is down, dark hair falling in an overgrown tangle around his face. His wrists are bound to the chair’s frame, but he doesn’t strain against them. He doesn’t move at all.
I can’t even tell if he is breathing.
For a moment, the only sound is my own heartbeat slamming against my ribs. I adjust my glasses again to steady my hands.
“Mr. Mercer,” I say, forcing my voice not to crack. “My name is Dr. Emily Beckett. I’m here to—“
His head lifts slowly.
Too slow.
His eyes lock onto mine through the lenses. Cold blue. Like an ocean. Drowning me in place.
I freeze.
Whatever speech I practiced last night evaporates from my throat. He doesn’t blink. He doesn’t look away. It feels like being unwrapped, layer by layer, by a man who hasn’t spoken in months but understands everything just by watching.
I swallow the lump forming in my throat and walk closer to the table. I pull the chair out and sit. His eyes never leave mine. Not for a single second. It feels like he is studying me, memorizing every move I make.
I open my mouth to speak, but the door flies open and slams shut again. My shoulders jump before dropping, a sharp gasp escaping me.
A detective walks in, already raising his voice.
“You’re late.”
My head turns toward him as he drags a chair to the table. The metal scrapes across the floor with a harsh screech that crawls up my spine.
He sits down beside me.
“I am never late,” I say. “You came early.”
He lets out a breath, almost a laugh. “Right, right.” Then he looks straight at Zayne Mercer. “Butcher of Eureka Springs.” His gaze shifts back to me. “And he’s mute.”
Zayne turns his attention to him. His lips twitch, like he is holding something back, and then he starts to laugh directly in the detective’s face.
The detective shoots to his feet, anger flaring so fast the air feels charged. He slams his fist on the table. But Zayne doesn’t blink. Not even once.
The detective reaches into the file, pulls out a stack of photographs, and shoves them across the table. Zayne lowers his eyes and scans them slowly, almost calmly, like he recognizes each one.
His laughter grows louder. His eyes lock onto the detective now.
He is a psychopath. The signs are unmistakable.
No empathy. No guilt. The uncontrollable laughter points to poor behavioral control.
He is precisely what every psychology textbook describes, impossible to miss.
This man is insane, but that is not what unsettles me.
What bothers me is how calm he remains as the detective loses control.
I understand the reaction. A case this heavy, with evidence stacked so clearly against one man, would break almost anyone.
But the question of why keeps clawing at him.
It claws at me, too.
Every victim was different from the last. There was no evident pattern, except one.
They were all women. That alone suggests a deep-rooted hatred.
Perhaps his mother was absent. Maybe she was present in the worst way.
The women he targeted held positions of authority, figures of power.
Whoever raised him did not just fail him. They damaged him.
The puzzle pieces he laid on the victim’s back were another sign. A clear break from reality. This was a game to him. A constructed fantasy that gave him control and excitement. It thrilled him.
He is a monster, one of the worst kind.
When I look at the whole picture, it is obvious he was shaped into this. Monsters like him are rarely born. They are made. And often, they never had a choice in becoming exactly what they were molded to be.
The detective reaches for the file of the first victim found in May 2008. He pulls out the photograph and places it on the table.
“You know what I think?” he says. “I think you couldn’t get your dick to work, so you had to kill her just to be able to jerk off.”
He sits back down, laughing bitterly, then leans forward and turns his face toward me. “Probably would have done it with you, too.”
I exhale slowly and study the detective. Deep purple shadows mix with dark brown beneath his eyes. His hair is overgrown, curling over his ears, streaked with gray at the ends. Signs of exhaustion. Signs of time that has been stolen. On his right hand, a pale line marks where a ring once was.
This case took his marriage too.
“Do you want coffee?” I ask.
He looks at me, confused at first, then almost hopeful, like he wants me to get it for him.
I smile instead. “I could use one too.”
Despite everything, he is still a gentleman. He stands and nods. “I’ll grab it from the cafeteria.”
“Latte,” I say with a small smile.
“Yeah,” he says, his voice calmer now. “I’ll be right back.”
He walks out slowly, closing the door behind him. The moment it clicks shut, I turn to the monster sitting across from me.
He leans back against the chair frame, posture loose, and locks his eyes onto mine again. His jaw tightens slightly.
He is watching me.
“Do you like coffee?” I ask. My palms begin to sweat as I press them together and lean forward against the table. “I do,” I add with a quiet chuckle.
My hand lifts to the strand of hair that has fallen onto my forehead. I tuck it behind my ear and adjust my glasses.
He keeps staring.
Not a word.
I pick up one of the photographs from the table. I slide it closer to him.
“Did you know her?” I ask, then lift my gaze to meet his.
Ten seconds pass.
Nothing.
Then he shakes his head.
He answered.
“Okay,” I exhale.
Why am I so damn nervous?
He makes me nervous.
“What was her name?” I ask.
She was listed as Jane Doe. A victim without an identity. He took even that from her.
Another ten seconds pass.
This time, he doesn’t shake his head. He lowers his hand and presses a finger against the printed words Jane Doe. He taps twice.
“How did you meet her?” I ask, lifting my eyes to his again.
Silence again.
He doesn’t speak.