Chapter 8
EIGHT
Emily
Istand in a coffee bar near the Halden Institute, staring down at the empty paper from the Plan B pill I swallowed minutes ago. I judge men who think with their cocks, even though my own body was doing the exact same thing.
Emily, you are officially a slut. Congratulations.
I exhale slowly.
The dream was good. The sex was even better. And still, regret coils tight in my chest. I am not even blaming Mercer anymore. I am blaming myself and blaming my body and thirsting after a man who should terrify me.
My mind spirals, asking the same questions over and over.
If Mercer wanted me dead, why am I still breathing?
He has been watching me for years. Studying me.
Waiting. Why make me want him before he cuts my throat?
Years of psychology should have given me answers, yet the truth sits right in front of my face, and I hate it.
I hate that part of me that doesn’t want to know.
And I hate that I came here looking for those answers anyway.
“Emily Beckett, you are fucked,” I whisper to myself. “Slut who got fucked.”
An old man sitting at the table across from me turns slowly, eyes narrowed in judgment. He crosses himself and turns back around. I force an awkward smile and a small wave.
When he looks away, I release another breath. I lift my coffee from the table and bring it to my lips. The warmth barely registers.
My pocket buzzes.
With the cup still in my hand, I pull out my phone.
Detective Mara Collins is calling.
“Hello,” I say, pressing the green button.
“Zayne Mercer escaped,” she says.
Everything stops.
The café drains of color. Black and white replace everything. Sound dulls, voices smothered into silence. It feels like stepping into a horror film, the camera zooming in tight on my face for the shock.
“Shit,” is all I manage.
I leave money on the table and push up from the chair, moving fast toward the exit. The old man watches me again as I pass.
He escaped.
Zayne Mercer escaped.
The words pound through my head as I cross the street, moving toward the Institute. Each step feels unreal, like the ground might drop out from under me at any second.
And somewhere beneath the fear, beneath the panic, something colder stirs.
I am a dead woman walking. I thought to myself. He is coming for me. He is going to kill me.
I rush up the stairs towards the entrance door and push inside. Nurses swarm around me, moving their mouths, their hands reaching me, but their voices are completely muted. Sound drops away, like I have been shoved underwater.
I refuse to believe he escaped.
I turn left, toward the cells. The place is chaotic.
Bodies rush past each other, shoes squealing against the floor, radios crackling.
They move like frightened animals, scrambling to recapture the Beast that slipped from the cage.
My heart pounds so hard I can hear it in my ears.
My breath comes short and sharp from running.
I reach the door.
Through the small square window, he lies on the bed, staring at the ceiling.
Relief hits first. Fear follows right behind. My fingers tighten against the doorframe.
Am I really seeing him, or is my mind filling the space with what it expects to find?
A guard steps up beside me. Before I can speak, I point at the window.
“He’s right there.”
The guard looks in, then lifts his radio. His voice cuts through the noise as he calls it in. Footsteps pound closer from down the hall.
But I couldn’t wait. I open the door and step inside.
He doesn’t move.
Not a twitch. Not a breath I can see. His eyes are open, fixed on the ceiling. He is not even blinking. Saliva slips from the corner of his mouth, trailing down his cheek and onto the pillow.
“Mr. Mercer,” I whisper as I move closer.
Slowly, his head turns.
I gasp.
“Who are you?” he asks.
The sound of my own swallow feels too loud as I force myself to stand still.
“Dr. Emily Beckett,” I say. “I am here to help.”
He turns his head back, eyes returning to the ceiling.
Silence again fills the room.
I take another step forward. The guards came near the door, whispering into their radios as if noise itself might provoke him.
I block them out, lifting my hand.
“Do you know where you are?” I ask.
His brow creases, then smooths. “No.”
My pulse stumbles.
“And your name?”
His jaw tightens, then loosens. “I don’t think I have one.”
Cold spills down my spine.
I glance back at the guards. “What did you give him?”
They exchange looks, but no one answers.
When I turn back, he is watching me.
Really watching.
Scanning.
His eyes are wrong. So wrong. They weren’t empty or dead; they merely lacked everything that once animated them. It seems like someone else is wearing his face, and that person has nothing left inside.
A guard approaches carefully and grips my arm, pulling me back. His voice brushes my ear.
“He slit the throat of a nurse who treated him.”
My heart slams harder. I look back at Mercer.
Our eyes lock.
And he laughs.
The sound bursts out of him. In the blink of an eye, he gets up from the bed.
The guard yanks me toward the door and shoves me out just as Mercer lunges. The door slams shut between us, and the lock clicks.
He appears in the small window almost instantly. Only glass separates us.
He scans me, laughing. His teeth are perfectly white. His eyes are still empty. Each time he slams his fists against the door, my shoulders jerk, and my eyes squeeze shut, blinking hard as if I can erase him that way.
“Oh, doctor,” he shouts, pounding the door again. “Are you scared?”
I straighten my spine. I clear my throat.
“No,” I say.
I lied.
I am terrified.
I turn and walk down the corridor, guards following me on both sides. My legs feel hollow as we move toward reception, everyone speaking at once, trying to piece together what happened.
Detective Mara is already there, waiting.
“He killed a nurse,” she says.
I nod.
“He needs to be diagnosed and locked up for good. He’s dangerous.”
I nod again.
My gaze drops to the desk. I focus on breathing, trying to feel the ground beneath my feet, but my legs tremble anyway.
“Are you alright?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “Yeah,” I repeat it, pressing my palm to my chest, willing my heartbeat to slow.
I look at her, then around the room.
Everyone is afraid. Terrified of one man. A man who wouldn’t hesitate to take me if he ever had the chance.
I am no different.
Yet the thought of him hunting me sends a sharp jolt through my chest. My heart pounds harder, faster. The feeling is like an adrenaline rush I never asked for, like something alive inside me I hate.
My fingers curl into my palm until my nails bite skin.
This is pure fear—survival instinct.
Or at least that’s what I tell myself.
But fear doesn’t heat my blood like this.
I force my breathing to slow, counting each inhale as if I am calming a patient instead of myself.
In for four.
Hold.
Out for six.
My pulse refuses to listen.
Pull your shit together, Emily.
I swallow. “He has a split personality,” I say. “One is charming. He disarms his victims and earns their trust. The other is aggressive. Violent.” I exhale. “The one who kills.”
The words come out too smoothly, like I have practiced them over and over in my head.
Detective Collins doesn’t answer right away. She watches me instead. I recognize that look. I use it on patients when they cling to explanations that feel safer than the truth.
“You mean Dissociative Identity Disorder,” she says finally.
“Yes,” I reply too fast. “D-I-D. Marked dissociation. Identity compartmentalization. Memory gaps. It explains the behavioral shifts. The contradictions.”
She folds her arms. “DID doesn’t automatically mean violence.”
“I know that,” I snap, then soften my tone, aware of her and the nurse listening to me now more than ever. “But in rare cases, when paired with severe antisocial traits, trauma, and a lack of integration, it can present this way.”
What I don’t say is that it also gives me distance.
Suppose two Zayne Mercers are living inside his brain. The one who could be gentle, who could make my pulse rise as he touched me, making me want to spread my legs. And the one who would slit my throat before he ever got the chance to touch me.
My chest tightens at the thought.
Fuck.
“That’s your professional opinion?” Collins asks.
I hesitate, just for a second.
“It’s a working hypothesis,” I say. “It requires extensive evaluation.”
Because if I’m wrong, if there is no split personality, and he was just playing me, then all of this was for nothing.
She looks at me, then pulls me away from the reception desk and further into the corridor. Her hand slides under my arm, dragging me slowly toward the nearby wall.
“Emily,” she says, “what the fuck is going on?”
I try to breathe. “I don’t know,” I whisper. “I don’t know,” I repeat.
“Figure it out,” she whispers angrily through her teeth. “All eyes are on us to close this case and get Mercer to court so he gets convicted. The media is pressuring the Chief, and we will both lose our jobs if we don’t have anything within two weeks.” Her grip on my arm tightens.
“Then fucking get someone else,” I say, pushing her hand away.
She takes a deep breath and straightens her posture.
“Tell me something, Emily,” she says. “And don’t give me a lecture.”
I look into her eyes as she squints at me.
“Can you take Zayne Mercer to court with what you have?”
The question lands heavier than I expected.
“What I have,” I repeat slowly, “is clinical observation. Behavioral patterns. Recorded interviews. Psychological evaluations conducted over the past few days.”
Collins snorts softly. “That’s not an answer.”
I look up at her. “It’s the honest one. I have nothing.”
She looks at me, one hand rubbing her chin while the other rests on her hip. “I’ll buy you more time,” she says, “but we need to have something soon.”
As she turns to leave, I whisper, “Rourke found something else.”
She rolls her eyes. “Did that buffoon contact you again?”
“Last night he brought a file. The doctor you mentioned had a son. He thinks it’s Mercer,” I say. “If he’s connected to Project Gemini, this whole case will get compromised very soon.”
“Fuck,” she says, stepping closer. “Don’t say a word to anyone.”
I nod.
There’s a moment of silence between us. Then I ask, “Do you think Mercer can leave here whenever he wants?” I look down at the floor, then back at her. “I mean, do you think somehow he can be in two places at once?”
She chuckles. “No.”
I nod, then whisper, “Good.”
My heart starts pounding again, insisting that Mercer was just a dream, that he couldn’t have slipped into my apartment last night.
“Call me if Rourke contacts you again,” she says, then walks away, leaving me leaning against the wall.
My mind is playing with me. Mercer is playing with me. And I’m losing in this game. Worse, my mind is taking his side.
I exhale softly when my phone starts buzzing. When I lift it, the number is unknown. I hesitate, then answer anyway.
“Hello,” I say.
“Hi, this is Jane, your neighbor next door,” a woman says. “Your landlord gave me your number in case of an emergency.”
“And what’s the emergency?” I ask, my voice sharp, my mind already spinning through scenarios.
“There’s an old lady outside asking for you,” she says. “She seems really lost, but she has your address. And she said someone named Zayne sent her.”
I freeze.
Fuck.
“I’ll be there,” I say quickly. “I need at least ten to fifteen minutes to get there.”
“Okay,” she says. “She’ll wait here.”
“Thanks,” I reply, ending the call.
I shove my phone into my pocket and push off the wall. I start walking, then realize my legs are already moving too fast. The hallway blurs as I head for the exit. Every reflection in the glass makes me flinch.
What the fuck is happening?
Nothing.
You’re spiraling, I tell myself. That’s what he wants.
I step outside, scanning left and right, trying to understand how any of this is possible.
I notice a taxi parked out front. The driver leans against the car, a cigarette hanging from his mouth. When he sees me approaching, smoke curls into the air.
“Do you drive?” I ask before he can speak.
“No, I levitate,” he says with a laugh.
“Great,” I say. “Can you levitate me to Ten White Street?“ I raise a brow.
“Sure.” He grinds the cigarette butt into the ground and heads for the driver’s seat.
I climb into the car and press two fingers to my temples, trying to massage the migraine away. The music blasting from the radio only makes it worse.
Ten minutes, I tell myself.
Just ten minutes and you’re home.