Chapter 5 #2
“I suppose that’s a logical assumption.” And a wrong one.
I’ve never analyzed myself. Not even in college, when every psych student was obsessed with dissecting their own psyche.
Back then, I had a theory that, before you can diagnose another person, you first have to exorcise your own personal demons.
A rather daunting task, as I soon realized it was easier to simply co-exist with mine than try to expel them. Once I accepted that, it was easy enough to move forward, to succeed even. And I succeeded right to the top of my class.
“A logical assumption,” Grayson echos me, a challenge sparking behind his vibrant gaze. “Is it a logical assumption that you’re a pathological liar?”
He wants to bait me, to get a reaction. I straighten my spine, trying to ease the ache in my lower back. Grayson’s eyebrows draw together—too subtle to convey concern, but enough to show he notices my discomfort.
“Do you think I’ve lied to you during our sessions?” I ask him, taking back my role.
“No,” he says. “I don’t think you lie to your patients. I think you lie to yourself, especially about your fears.”
I keep my tone natural. “That’s a severe assessment. Even so, we all lie to ourselves to some extent. It’s the way our mind protects us. If we realized just how insignificant we truly are, well—” I laugh “—we might lose the will to live.”
“Lose the will to live. That’s interesting.” He leans forward, staring at me as though he’s puzzling me out.
He likes puzzles.
I press back farther into the chair. Touch my forehead, willing the pain away. “Have you given much thought to the outcome of the trial?” I ask, shifting the topic.
“What are you trying to protect yourself from?”
“Excuse me?”
“You said that lying to yourself is a defense mechanism,” he says. “I want to know what you’re trying so hard to avoid. What you need protection from.”
I grasp the arms of my chair and pull myself up to stand. “I’m not playing your head games, Grayson. This little indulgence is over.”
“Who hurt you?” He stands so abruptly, I flinch, retreating behind my chair before his chains snap taut, locking him in place.
My gaze darts to my desk, to where the hidden panic button is positioned beneath the edge. Grayson tracks my line of sight, then he looks at me, smiles. “Go ahead. Press it,” he dares.
I swallow, controlling my breathing. “If I do, then this will be our last session.”
Dejection fills his eyes before he’s able to mask his expression. I remind myself that it’s not genuine emotion. He’s an expert manipulator.
He proves this when he steps back and rubs his wrist. “I would miss our time together, Dr. Noble. You are helping me.”
It’s not difficult to tell when you’re being lied to, just look for the manipulator’s tell: a tug of the ear, a touch of the hair. Rubbing a body part. Only with Grayson, I’m not sure if he’s lying about my helping him, or that he’ll miss our sessions—miss me.
“You want me to believe that you didn’t just do that on purpose,” I say, crossing my arms.
He tries to feign confusion, but he can’t hold the act for long. His smile stretches wide, that dimple carving his cheek. My legs tremble under the impact. “Maybe I want you to question which part of all this is true.”
“Mission accomplished,” I say. “If you purposely set out to manipulate these sessions, then I have to believe you want to die. So I ask you again, is this a game? Your last hurrah before your execution? Are you intentionally wasting my time because yours is up?”
His hands fist at his sides, the chains rattling with the tension. His muscles, strained beneath the jumpsuit, give away the tremor of anger thrumming through his body. It’s the first raw emotion he’s given me, an unguarded reaction.
I threaten him.
“You are not a game,” he says, his jaw clenched around each word.
I inhale a fortifying breath. “I have deception training. You may be skilled in the art of deception, but I’m skilled in detecting it, Grayson. I want the truth.”
“Lying to you wouldn’t benefit me. I want you to experience the truth.”
The way he says this…the phrasing—experience the truth, rather than simply wanting me to know it—it’s deliberate. A shiver crawls along my skin.
“Did you enjoy making your victims suffer?” I demand. “Did you relish in their torture, their deaths?” My words are just as deliberate. I want to know the depth of his sadistic nature. With his defenses lowered, he might just let me in.
“I did,” he admits. “I enjoyed it. Not one bit of guilt.”
I free a tense breath. “You can’t feel guilt or regret if you derive pleasure from others’ suffering and pain,” I say, probing deeper. “So is it for pleasure, are you aroused when you make your victims suffer? Do you achieve sexual gratification and release?”
His expression softens into one of pure ecstasy, eyes glazing over as if he’s reliving a memory. He finds me through that haze, those vivid blue eyes locking on to mine. I feel it deep in my core—an intense ache, building into a needy throb until I’m forced to squeeze my thighs together.
Like he’s scenting his prey, Grayson wets his lips. “It’s unfair that you know my secrets,” he says, tone low, gruff, “but I don’t have any of yours.”
“Is that an admission?” I force the subject.
He nods once in confirmation. “I was born this way. I’ve spent years trying to figure out the why. Then I got bored, and then I was restless. What matters now is how I choose to channel my sadistic nature.” He shrugs, rattling the chains. “If that’s what you want to label it.”
I lift my chin, jaw set. “That is the label, Grayson. But you’re also delusional if you believe you’re channeling your sadism for the better by punishing those you deem guilty. That’s not how it works. You don’t get to be the judge, jury, and executioner.”
“And yet, I am,” he says, sinking down into his chair. “It’s just a simple choice to accept who we are. You can relate. You channel your sickness through your patients.”
A sudden, icy fear seizes my breath.
“It’s why I’m here,” he continues, undeterred.
“It’s why you chose me over the drooler in the waiting room.
You made a choice, one that benefits you.
Just admit it, London. Admit you were born as free as I was so we can move past all this bullshit monotony and find out what we’re really capable of. ”
I step back, putting more distance between us, trying to fill my lungs with a breath not laced with his appealing scent. “What do you want,” I say in a demanding tone.
Such a simple question, yet the answer could determine everything.
“I want to live.” His steely gaze solders to mine. “And I want you.”
Time seems to suspend, holding me breathless in this moment. The honesty I read in those intense eyes traps me, an internal battle raging.
As the only outside source Grayson has to form a connection with, I realize I’m becoming part of his delusion—but I can use this connection.
Is it ethical? No. Not even close. But there’s no one else like Grayson. I won’t get this opportunity again.
I remove my glasses and clear my vision of my hair. “In your circumstance, you can have only one pursuit,” I say, finding his eyes. “Since you value choices, I suggest you choose wisely.”
A crooked smile tips his mouth. “Then I choose for you to wear that skirt every session.”
I bite my lip, refusing to smile as I move toward the writing desk and grab my notebook. “Symphorophilia. Do you know this term?”
“I know paraphilia means sexual deviation.” He smirks, his stare expectant. “Labeling me a deviant is nothing new.”
I arch an eyebrow. “But your particular deviation is,” I counter.
“There’s no empirical research on the topic of symphorophilia.
” Which is partly the reason I won’t stop the sessions.
Research to feature a serial killer would be the first of its kind.
My other reasons are my own personal motivation.
“I can feel your excitement,” Grayson says, smile stretching. “Or is that arousal?” He sniffs the air, making me flush.
I lick my lips, parting the notebook to a marked page.
“The broad definition is simple: you experience sexual gratification from staging disasters. Your particular psychopathy, sadistic symphorophilia, is more complicated. To explore it, we’re going to delve deeper, discover why you turned to psychodrama theatrics instead of setting fires or staging traffic wrecks.
I personally think your victimology might be the key. ”
Most psychopaths feel relieved once they finally have a diagnosis—an explanation for why they are the way they are—even if they rebel against reform.
Not Grayson.
The downturned edges of his mouth and drawn eyebrows express his dissatisfaction.
“You don’t agree with my diagnosis?”
His even breaths are audible in the quiet space between us. “Every lock has a key.”
I frown. “My wording was figurative.”
His mouth presses into a firm line, giving nothing away. I decide that’s acceptance enough, and end the session by crossing into the main room and opening the door to alert the officer.
I hover by the hallway as Grayson is unshackled from the floor restraint and secured to be transferred back to Cotsworth. It’s a tedious and loud process that grates my nerves every time the chains clatter and locks click.
When he’s ready, the corrections officer escorts Grayson forward to meet the other armed guards in the waiting room.
As Grayson passes, his hand grazes mine—the lightest brush of his finger against the side of my palm. It could be mistaken as an accident, but the point of contact heats my skin, speeding my pulse.
I shut the door and cup my hand over the inked key.