Chapter 11 #2
She searches her suit pocket for her string. “I won’t let you turn this into a sordid game,” she says, wrapping the black thread around her finger.
“It’s not a game to me.” I sit forward. “Who else are you going to confide in?”
Something sparks in her eyes as she looks at me. “You want to…what? Analyze me? Work through my feelings?”
I nod to the chair across from me. Her chair.
She releases a lengthy breath. “You’re intelligent, Grayson. You’ve probably memorized every disorder in the book, but you’re hardly qualified.”
“And you don’t trust me,” I clarify for her. “Not with your mind.”
She shrugs. “One could argue it’s not so much distrust in you, rather than the fact that I manipulated my own patients, resulting in my distrust of everyone.”
“That’s a start.” I nod again to her chair.
“We don’t have time for this.” She rubs at her forehead.
“If it’s affecting you, we make time.”
Seconds pass where she considers her options, then she brings the chair up to the yellow line. I’m not shackled, nor am I a physical danger to her. She’s mentally distancing herself from me in her safe zone.
“Tell me about Lydia.” It’s the easiest place to start.
Her gaze settles on me. “Lydia would never betray her patients.”
I smile slightly, urging her on.
“Lydia would never forget her parents. She would never lie to the authorities, or aid and abet a criminal. Especially a killer.” A beat. “Lydia would never be aroused right now.”
Her words bridge the expanse between us and grip me. I dig my fingers into the armrest, maintaining control. London is the master when it comes to psychological warfare. She knows how to distract me, but I’m not her doctor.
I’m her conduit.
“What would Lydia do?” I prompt.
She huffs a derisive breath. “That, I don’t know.”
“When thoughts of Lydia arise, how do you feel?”
“Distanced. Outside myself. I believe I’m experiencing a mild form of depersonalization induced by high-anxiety.” She clings to the thread in her hand. “Some form of disassociation.”
“How do you deal with anxiety?”
Her breath stutters. “I immerse myself in work. In my patients.”
“A distraction?”
She shakes her head. “No…a form of therapy. A way to retain control.” Her string is wound so tightly around her finger the tip turns white.
I scrutinize her, letting my gaze travel leisurely over her demurely crossed ankles, her legs, body. She’s tense; able to feel my perusal like an invasive touch. “Who feels more out of control?” I ask. “Lydia or London?”
Her eyes meet mine. “Right now, Lydia. She wouldn’t open herself up like this.”
“Not to me,” I complete her thought. I sit back, run my hand over my forearm, drawing her attention to the ink and scars. I even allow my accent to bleed through. “How do I make Lydia feel?”
“Grayson…” She touches her forehead again to create a barrier. “I know what you’re trying to do.”
“Answer.”
Her gaze locks on to mine. “If I never became the person I became, then I’d feel intimidated. Scared. Anxious. But more than anything…curious.”
A smile slants my mouth. “I do make good girls curious. It’s the lure. That indefinable characteristic we both have. What attracts prey to predator.”
Her breathing intensifies. “Lydia would only be prey to you.”
“You’re not giving her enough credit. She’s stronger than you think. Spread your legs.”
Caught off guard, she directs a lethal glare my way. “That’s unethical.”
I slide my chair forward and, sitting back down, kick her ankles apart. “Wide.”
Her chest rises and falls quickly, her breathing labored. With more reserve than I feel, London casually inches her skirt up and parts her knees.
“Wider,” I say, voice thick.
She spreads her thighs until her knees nearly touch the armrests.
I lick my lips as I take in every inch of her exposed skin, feeling no shame. “I want to talk to Lydia only.”
A tense tremor of lust crackles the air. Just her exposed position makes every word I say suggestive, erotic. Evoking the emotions London is trying to suppress.
“Recently,” I say, “I conducted an important meeting with a man who’s working the crime scenes in Rockland.”
Her eyes widen. “Grayson, what—?”
“Listen,” I cut her off. “I’m talking to Lydia right now. She would never interrupt me, would she?”
I like this would never game. It’s useful.
The column of her throat drags upward in a hard swallow. “No manipulation,” she says.
“I would never harm you.” I admire London’s intelligence too much to try to twist her in that way. “I just want to get to know Lydia. Understand this side of you. It’s important to me.”
She concedes with a nod.
“Take off your suit jacket.”
This time, she complies without resistance. She removes her jacket and drapes it across the back of her chair.
“The second murder in Rockland has helped narrow the suspect pool,” I say.
She blinks rapidly. “How did you select the victim?”
“I didn’t. The copycat did.”
She narrows her gaze, uncertain.
“You thought it was me,” I say, reverent. Her guarded behavior makes sense now.
London lifts her chin. “I wasn’t sure, to be honest. The time between murders seemed too quick.
The method was easily enough mimicked, more simplistic—” she licks her lips “—but it was also more impulsive, personalized. I thought the copycat would need more time to be sure it was you before making a move.”
I tilt my head. “If you thought it was me, then you must’ve been worried. Nervous that I’d give us away.”
“Your compulsion to torture and take life will always dominate you,” she says coldly.
“Regardless of us,” I add.
“Regardless of anyone or anything, but yes.”
I study her closer. Look for her tells. “And if I was devolving, what lengths would you go to in order to protect yourself? To protect Lydia?”
“That’s an unfair question,” she says. “Since you clearly kept me in the dark about the suspect that you’d already discovered beforehand, I have to assume you did so on purpose to test me.”
I smile. “We’re a team, London. You already passed my tests.”
She closes her legs. “This is not a team dynamic. I don’t know what this is but…it’s not anything I can classify.”
“There’s no alpha,” I say, agreeing with her assessment. “There always has to be a dominant in a duo.”
“Precisely.”
“But whose rule is that?”
She reflexively rubs at the inked key along her hand. “Doesn’t matter. We’ve already proven that it’s important. We’ll unravel, otherwise. Trust doesn’t come easily between two people who have suffered an early life trauma.” She sucks in a breath. “Someone has to take charge.”
Having a partner is a new experience for me, and for London. It’s like dancing, figuring out who will lead.
“It should be you,” I decide.
She looks up from toying with her string. “Why?”
“Because you’re able to reside in public. You have a reputable career. You’re above reproach. And, because I do trust you, London. As long as Lydia doesn’t call the shots.”
She considers this a moment, then: “A submissive partner typically employs manipulative tactics to sway and control the dominant. I suppose that describes us quite accurately.” Her light laugh dances over my skin.
“Let’s consider it foreplay,” I say.
“Wait—” Her amused expression drops. “Who is the suspect? I need to know so I can get an understanding of their motive. A copycat isn’t that different from a typical serial offender, but there are marked variances.
They have a reason as to why they’re motivated to kill.
Is it an obsessed fan? No.” She dismisses that right away.
“Not all the details were revealed to the public. That means—”
“The copycat has inside knowledge.” Had she not been sidetracked with the Mize investigation, London would’ve figured this out sooner. Makes me wonder if the derailment was done to her on purpose.
After a moment of thought, she shakes her head. “No. That is a huge reach, Grayson. You’re trying to take the game to a level that—besides risking you, me, everything—will end badly.”
“This isn’t a theory, London. It’s a fact. Only two men fit the copycat profile. Which means either Detective Foster or Agent Nelson has been moonlighting as the Angel of Maine.”
“That’s ridiculous.” She swipes her bangs from her forehead, dismissing the theory. “How do the Rockland crime scenes confirm this?”
“This person has done his own study on me, adopting my MO. He’s good.
Good enough to fool most, but as you know, method is ritual.
Signature excites. The compulsion to experience the kill…
the temptation to make it his own… Every man falls victim to pride.
We’re simple beasts.” I shrug, indifferent. “It’s where we fail.”
“How did you collect this information?”
“I took a chance,” I admit. “Which I may regret later, but we needed the intel.” She raises an eyebrow, not impressed. “One of the CSU techs has a weakness for call girls.”
She sighs heavily. “You left him alive.”
“My affections for you apparently make me soft.” I smile. “How would Lydia feel about this topic of conversation?”
She inches her legs open as she relaxes into the chair. “Intrigued.”
Good. “I gathered enough to know that my suspicion on the signature is accurate. He mimics everything, like a perfect echo, except for one flaw: He indulges himself at the end. My kills are about technique, the design. He enjoys feeling the life he’s taking leave the body. He can’t help himself.
“Every trap he crafted allowed for contusions around the victims’ necks. Easily disguised behind the design itself, but if you look closely, you understand why he rigged it this way. So he—not the trap—could kill them.” Disgust roils through me. “It’s an insult to my craft, really.”
London slips her fingers over her thigh. This part always excited her—the details.
“That’s why Larry’s death had to be different; a shift in MO,” I continue. “Allowing the killer to get closer to the victim, delivering a more personalized death. We had to test the theory.”