Chapter 1 #2
My lips part to continue, but the door swings open and the detective steps back inside, carrying two cups of coffee. He sets the cup down on the table, without saying a word.
I lift the cup to my lips, wrapping my hands around it. Steam curls upward, warming my face. I take a breath and chuckle softly.
“I forgot where I put my last cup of coffee.”
Zayne tilts his head. He leans forward slightly and motions with his chin behind me.
When I turn, I see the cup sitting on the table near the door. I must have placed it there when I came in.
“Oh,” I chuckle. “How silly of me.” Heat creeps into my cheeks.
The detective settles back into his chair and rubs a hand over his face. He is pretending the outburst never happened, but the slight tremor in his fingers gives him away.
I take a slow sip of the latte. The warmth soothes my throat, but it does nothing for the tightness in my chest.
Zayne’s eyes flick to the steam rising from my cup.
Not to the detective, or the photos.
Just me.
“Let’s try this again,” the detective mutters as he opens the file again. “Let’s see if this one jogs your memory.”
He spreads the photographs across the table once more.
Zayne doesn’t look down this time.
His eyes remain locked on me, unblinking.
My stomach flips.
“Focus,” the detective snaps. “On the pictures, not her.”
Zayne smiles.
It is small, barely a shift of his lips, but it crawls across my skin and raises goosebumps along my arms.
The detective leans forward. “What’s so funny now?”
Zayne finally lowers his gaze to the photographs. He taps one with his finger. Once.
Then he looks back at me and taps again.
The same rhythm he used with Jane Doe.
My mouth goes dry.
I clear my throat.
The detective lifts the photograph and walks out of the room, as if he noticed something I somehow missed. I stay where I am, trapped in the stare of a monster who refuses to look away.
I swallow and adjust my glasses. I part my lips, ready to ask anything just to break the silence, when the detective reappears.
He stops at the doorframe, leaning in just enough to see me.
“Dr. Beckett, you coming?”
My job is to get inside the mind of the man sitting in front of me, not to be part of the investigation itself. But maybe this is part of it after all.
“Yes,” I say as I stand.
I walk toward the door and grab my coat from the hanger beside it. Just as I reach the threshold, a deep, sharp, husky voice stops me.
“You forgot your coffee, freckles,” he says. “Again.”
He chuckles softly.
I try not to smile.
Emily, why are you smiling?
I walk back slowly, refusing to look at him. I pick up the cup and keep my tone professional. “Thank you, Mr. Mercer. I appreciate it.”
He doesn’t respond. The smirk from earlier still sits at the corner of his mouth. As I lift the cup, he winks.
He is dangerous.
I know he is.
A psychopath.
Charming.
A hot psychopath.
Completely off limits.
I exhale as I walk toward the door. The detective closes it behind us. As we move down the hallway, he grabs my arm and pulls me closer.
“You were chosen for this role for a reason,” he says. “Don’t fuck it up.”
I close my eyes for a brief second and inhale deeply.
“Correct,” I say. “I am good at my profession and at what I do. And the fact that he spoke after months of being mute says a lot. It means I already cracked beneath his surface.”
He laughs. “Nah,” he says with a chuckle. “He cracked… You.” He presses a finger against my chest, the file still crumpled in his hand.
“Freckles...” He laughs again. “You stupid child. We chose you because you are his type. And it obviously worked.”
My heart starts pounding. He is not wrong. Most of the victims were blonde, though not all of them. This man never followed a clean pattern.
“Did they choose you for the same reason, detective?” I ask, my hands shaking with anger.
“Because you are unstable enough to play both good and bad cop in front of a psychopath, just to confuse a profile some of you made up?” I chuckle.
“In his eyes, you are just drunk.” I step closer and catch his breath.
“Tired. Sad.” I tilt my head and adjust my glasses. “Joke.”
I take the file from his hands and exhale.
“If you want my help, you will treat me with respect. If not, find someone else with my success rate who also happens to be this man’s type.
I will not be part of your games, and I will not be your punching bag because you didn’t have the courage to be a better husband. ” I point at the pale line on his hand.
He steps back and rubs his chin. “My wife died,” he says quietly. “But I do wish I had been a better husband.”
“I...” My heart stops. “I apologize.”
“Obviously, we read each other wrong,” he says.
“But let me make one thing clear.” He points toward the door.
“That man belongs behind bars, not in a mental institution. He is not sick. He is manipulative and dangerous. And if you don’t stop this act of yours,” he mocks me, giggling, “you will be his next meal.”
I swallow hard, my jaw tightening.
“Thank you for your observation, detective. But your wife’s death does not permit you to disrespect me. I know this man is dangerous. And my act,” I say, lifting my fingers to mock quotation marks, “is to connect with him and earn his trust so he talks.”
He takes the file back from me. “Or to get in your pants.”
I close my eyes again, rolling them deep in my skull before opening them.
“Fine,” I say. “Then find someone else.” I smile. “And I am sorry for your loss. Your stages of grief are consuming you. And since the idea of sexual tension between a serial killer and his doctor clearly unsettles you, maybe you are the one who needs to get laid.”
I exhale and turn away. “Goodbye.”
I hear him growl behind me, but I promised myself I would never allow anyone to treat me with disrespect. I am a kind person—a good one. But I can recognize an asshole the moment I see one.
We never truly know people, not even at first glance. But when you are someone like me, cursed with the ability to observe every detail, excuses stop working. Trauma doesn’t excuse cruelty. No matter how bad life gets, a person can still choose to be decent.
We all fight battles no one else sees. We all carry weight. But some people keep it buried until it explodes onto whoever happens to be nearby. When you hold the anger of the world inside you, you become bitter. And even if that doesn’t make you a bad person, it does make you dangerous to others.
Hurt people hurt people.
Eventually, it comes back. Some call it karma. I call it life.
Sooner or later, life always catches up. If not on you, then on your loved ones.