Chapter 10
FLIGHT
LONDON
Memories are deceptive.
Each time we revisit one, our minds subtly alter the details. Reshaping, rewriting, distorting reality into something a little different from what actually occurred. The truth is, no two people recall a past event the same.
Very few understand this, and it can be unsettling, even frightening, when they realize this truth.
Like a married couple having the same argument night after night, each stubbornly insisting the other is wrong, each adamant their version is correct.
In reality, they’re both right. Their memories have been altered by their minds to reinforce their personal narratives—the truths that shape their identities and beliefs to determine how they perceive the world around them.
I wrote a paper on this once, back in my first year.
Fresh out of college, I was eager to unravel the origins of a murderer’s mind.
Was it nurture, the environment and experiences, that created a killer?
Or was it the way their mind perceived those first impressionable years that ultimately fashioned them into one?
Most would argue that they’re one and the same, that there’s no distinction between the reality of our past and how we remember it—that the outcome, either way, still creates a monster.
This is chiefly true. It’s nearly impossible to separate fact from fiction, so why spend our time debating theories or picking apart the particulars?
I was young, and in my youth I bent to the psychology of the masses. I abandoned my thesis, dismissing my ideas and how they might pertain to my patients. It was irrelevant for my area of focus as I furthered my career with killers and their rehabilitation.
To move forward, I had to stop looking back, recalling my own memories of the past. How many times had I gone over the details?
How many times had my mind warped those events?
Were my memories even real anymore, or just fragments of the truth tangled with my nightmares?
Like an old tape that’s been recorded over too many times, my memories now play back a garbled, corrupted song.
I shove my hands into my coat pockets as I follow the winding path through the lush aviary garden. The birds twitter along to the distorted tune in my head, their high-pitched calls punctuating each spike of anxiety.
I thought a walk through one of my favorite places might calm me, an escape I’ve turned to countless times to quiet my thoughts, but the birds swooping overhead seem to grow louder, more agitated, as if sensing the weight of the secret I’ve carried too long.
And obviously, after what transpired with Grayson, I’m just losing it.
A chill touches my skin, and I release the clip holding my hair, letting the strands fall loose around my neck.
I’ve replayed the memory of my last session with Grayson too many times now, analyzing the details, dissecting every sensation, every emotion he stirred. The yearning he awakened within me.
And I’m afraid that, with each recollection, I’m altering what actually happened, distorting the moment into something else entirely.
Our minds are so powerful, capable of assigning connections and emotions to a single moment, transforming something insignificant into something meaningful and passionate.
When from an outside perspective, a colleague might simply conclude that countertransference is clouding my judgment, interfering with my ability to maintain a professional relationship with my patient.
I gave in to Grayson’s desires, and you can never give your patient everything they want, even if those desires reflect your own. No, scratch that. Especially when their desires reflect your own.
It’s not just unethical, it’s dangerous, to both patient and doctor.
Yet the feel of his rough hands on my skin…
I close my eyes, just for a moment, allowing the memory to claim me one final time before I bury it. Inhaling in a deep, cleansing breath of the garden air, I open my eyes and lift my gaze to and darkening evening sky, where thunderclouds gather.
The birds have gone silent. The sudden stillness of the aviary prickles my senses with awareness, and I realize I’m not alone.
I turn around. “Are you following me, officer…?”
Wearing a black trench coat over a cheap suit, the slightly overweight man is easy to mark as law enforcement. Being raised by the town sheriff has given me plenty of experience spotting cops.
The smirk tugging at his mouth confirms my suspicion. “Foster. Detective Foster,” he introduces himself. “Sorry if I startled you, I was just enjoying the scenery here. Figured we could talk once we were alone.”
I vaguely recall Lacy mentioning a detective by that name. Wrapping my arms around my midsection, I glance behind him. “The aviary is closing soon,” I say as I start toward the exit. “We can talk at my office, during business hours.”
“I’ve tried, Dr. Noble. You’re a difficult woman to get in touch with.” As I try to pass him, he thrusts a manila folder toward me. “You need to see this.”
Despite my understanding of the mind’s tricks, curiosity remains a powerful tool. The detective clearly knows this.
I take the folder.
“You’re not the first shrink he’s abused,” he says.
I narrow my eyes at his word choice before parting the folder. As I glance down, the image inside steals my breath. I mask my features, not allowing my disgust to register on my face as I flip to the next page and scan the victim’s information.
“Dr. Mary Jenkins,” I say aloud, trying to place why that name sounds familiar.
“She was a neurologist at Hopkins,” Foster says. “She was also accused of unethical practices on her patients,” he continues, filling in the blanks for me, “but never prosecuted.”
My stomach pitches as I recall the details. Unethical practices is far too weak of a term for the cruelties she inflicted on her patients; the neurologist who resurrected the barbaric practice of lobotomy.
The photographs inside the file capture the gruesomeness the procedure. Mary’s lifeless eyes stare off vacantly, clouded, pupils dilated. Puncture wounds dot the inner corner of her lids, the evidence she was a victim of her own morbid practice.
Lobotomized to death.
I look up at the detective as a thought occurs. “Where was the body recovered? This doesn’t look like a disposal site.”
Foster’s brow furrows. “I show you pictures of a tortured and murdered doctor and that’s what you want to know?”
I snap the folder closed. “I assume you’ve come a long way to show me this, so you’ve been anticipating my reaction.
I’m sorry to disappoint you.” As there were no lobotomy victims found in connection to Grayson in Maine, the detective has to be here on a mission from the prosecution in Delaware.
“Otherwise, you’d have just simply emailed me.
” I hand him back the folder. “You’re here to convince me not to take the stand in New Castle. ”
He squares his shoulders. “I’ve read up on you, Dr. Noble. I know how you work. I know that if you go before that jury and spew some psychobabble about trauma and other bullshit, then that monster could skate out of the death penalty.”
I arch an eyebrow from behind my glasses. I’m sure the detective is well aware that witness tampering is a crime. “I find it ironic how officers of the law tend to be the ones who most often disregard it.”
He grunts, a humorless sound. “To answer your question—” he digs out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket “—Sullivan didn’t always dispose of his victims. Dr. Jenkins was discovered at the scene. He’s obviously become more cautious, perfecting his methods since then.”
I angle my head away as he lights up and exhales a stream of smoke. “I would say that Mr. Sullivan stopped perfecting his methods a year ago when he was incarcerated. That is, if the actual perpetrator was indeed caught.” I hold up the file. “Do you have any evidence tying him to this murder?”
Grayson has admitted the killings to me. Though our sessions are confidential, I won’t go on trial declaring his innocence. I just enjoy watching the way the detective’s eye tics at the thought.
“You’re welcome to any and all evidence, Dr. Noble. I’ll have it forwarded to you.”
“Thank you. I appreciate that.” I start to leave, feeling this is a proper place to end the conversation, but he snags the arm of my coat.
“It’s my hope that once you’ve reviewed the evidence, you’ll know the right thing to do.”
I pull out of his grasp and cross my arms. “The right thing to do, detective, is my job. And no amount of coercion from you or any other New Castle official will prevent me from doing that.”
He holds up a hand in defense. “No one’s threatening you, doctor. We’re all on the same side, aren’t we? The side that wants justice for the victims.” He tosses his cigarette down and stubs it out with the toe of his boot.
I huff a derisive laugh. “Wanting justice for the victims doesn’t give anyone a license to kill with the death penalty, Detective Foster,” I say, stepping around him. “Now please contact my office for any further inquiries.”
He waits until I reach the bend in the trail to call out, “He drove an icepick through her skull. But that’s not what killed her.”
My steps slow, but I don’t stop.
“She bled to death, Dr. Noble.”
With escape in sight, I push through the latticed door and hit the sidewalk, my hurried steps carrying me toward a private alcove between buildings. I lean against the brick, inhaling clipped breaths as pain pulses in my lower back, climbing along my spine to grip my head.
“Dammit.” I press my fingers to my aching temples.
I’m not easily shaken. I’ve contended with far more aggressive officers when combatting the prosecution on cases. But Foster caught me off guard. I was already in a vulnerable state before his intrusion, and he knew what he was doing.
Death due to a brain injury is an especially slow and brutal way to die. You don’t just bleed to death—not the way he stated. Swelling inside the skull crushes the brain, severing the function of vital organs.
It’s excruciating.
And yet, I can see the genius in her murder, her death designed to match her crime. There’s no doubt in my mind that Grayson is the perpetrator, that he devised a trap fitting for the doctor to end her life.
Alarmingly, that’s not what disturbs me. At least, not in the way the detective intended.
My connection to Grayson goes beyond mere transference. Every time I look into his eyes, I see a reflection—not of myself, but of the blood-stained girl I buried long ago, a hollow echo from my past.
With trembling fingers, I touch the jagged scar along my palm, tracing the rough outline of the key, as warped and faded as the girl who inked it there. Grayson has no idea what he’s stirring awake.
I’m either in danger of falling for the devil, or I’m the devil herself.