3. Ellie
ELLIE
Three hours. That's all that stands between Killian Blackthorn's maximum security cell and my living room.
I push his file across the desk, watching my fingers tremble.
A completely natural physiological response to bringing a man like him into my home.
The state failed to prove the murder charges at trial, but his file paints an unmistakable picture.
I know exactly what he is. I also know exactly what anticipation feels like. It feels like this.
October rain streaks down the courthouse windows as I read the final release papers. My phone vibrates against the metal desk. Another text from Nathan.
Nathan: Are you sure about this, El? It's not too late to reassign him.
I flip the phone face down and close my notebook. I didn't spend two years fighting the review board for this experimental program just to get cold feet. The truth is, I don't want to be talked out of this. I want Killian Blackthorn in my house.
I wore the navy blazer today, the stiff one that forces my shoulders back.
I kept the jewelry minimal and pulled my hair into a tight knot.
I've performed this version of myself a thousand times, though as I buttoned my cuffs, I caught myself wondering if a man from a maximum-security cell would even notice the effort.
The courthouse is quiet. The only sound is my heels on the marble and the distant hum of the air conditioning. I walk toward the administrative wing, my mind already racing ten miles ahead.
"Dr. Hart?" I turn to find a woman waiting. She's in a crisp pantsuit with an expression shaped by years of bureaucracy. "I'm Janet Bannister, case coordinator for the rehabilitation program. Mr. Blackthorn is en route now. Are you ready to proceed?"
Am I ready?
Ready to prove the review board wrong? Ready to let a man who is completely unhinged into my home? Ready to admit, even to myself, that some part of me wanted to see if he was as striking in person as he was on paper?
"Yes, of course." I don't give her anything else.
"Excellent. If you'll follow me, we'll handle the final documentation and then you can meet your," she pauses for a beat, "your subject."
The way she hesitates over the word 'subject' tells me everything I need to know. To them, Killian Blackthorn isn't a person in need of rehabilitation. He's a dangerous animal being transferred from one cage to another.
The administrative office smells of old carpet and furniture wax. Janet spreads papers across a metal desk, checking off ankle monitor codes and emergency procedures. I sign everywhere she points, keeping my hand steady through every liability waiver.
"The transport should be here any minute," she checks her watch. "The board still has supervised housing available if you've changed your mind about the living arrangements, Eleanor."
"My home is already set up." I don't leave room for debate. "I've been doing this for two years. Killian isn't my first violent offender."
Except it is different, and we both know it.
The other violent offenders I'd worked with had been angry young men acting out of desperation or stupidity.
According to his file, Killian is a different breed entirely.
A criminal who made violence his profession, who survived seven years in maximum security through intelligence and networking rather than the violence that most resort to.
He's clever. Calculated. That alone makes him high-risk.
"Of course," Janet says smoothly. "The monitoring station will be operational twenty-four hours a day. Any irregularity in the ankle device will trigger an immediate response. And you have the emergency contact numbers?"
I pat my briefcase, where the laminated card with emergency numbers sits. "Everything is prepared."
Through the office window, I watch a black SUV with tinted windows pull up to the courthouse's secure entrance.
My pulse quickens despite my attempts to maintain my composure.
This is it, the moment when theory becomes reality, when the man from the photograph becomes flesh and blood, sitting across from me.
I've sat across from murderers, abusers, men whose eyes hold nothing but hunger for pain. But this is different. Killian doesn't just unsettle me; he calls something forward. Something I've buried beneath degrees and discipline. I don't know what it is. I only know that it's dangerous.
"Transport's here," Janet says unnecessarily. "Shall we?"
The secure entrance leads to a small holding area designed for high-risk transfers. Gray walls, reinforced glass, and the metallic smell of fear and bleach. Through the window, I can see the SUV's back door opening, guards emerging in formation.
And then I see him.
Even in shackles, even flanked by armed guards, Killian Blackthorn moves with a dangerous elegance that steals whatever calm I had left.
Towering over everyone, he must be around six-five, with the muscular build of someone who treats his body like a weapon.
His dark hair is longer than in his mugshot, falling across his forehead in a way that somehow makes him look younger and more dangerous simultaneously.
But it is his eyes that stop me cold. Slate-gray and utterly focused, they sweep the holding area methodically before landing on me through the reinforced glass.
Classic hypervigilance, but extremely well-controlled.
Not the scattered panic of trauma, but the calculated assessment of a predator.
For one heart-stopping moment, our gazes lock, and I feel a jolt of recognition.
Disturbingly close to familiarity, as if I've seen him before.
But that's impossible. I've never seen this man before in my life, apart from his photo, yet something in my body reacts as if I have.
I tell myself it's only the adrenaline, the anticipation.
My body doesn't feel frightened, exactly.
It feels... alert. Too alert. Like it recognizes something I shouldn't.
His expression shifts when he sees me, a subtle change that might have been surprise or satisfaction. His lips curve slightly, not quite a smile, but close enough to make me feel like prey that has just walked into a carefully laid trap.
"Dr. Hart?" Janet's voice seems to come from very far away. "Are you ready to meet Mr. Blackthorn?"
"Yes." I straighten my shoulders and force my expression into composure.
The guards lead Killian into the transfer room, their hands never straying far from their weapons.
He moves as if he's mapping the room, indexing exits and weapons.
Old habits from prison, maybe. Or something worse.
When his eyes find mine again, I have the unsettling feeling that he is cataloging me as well.
"Mr. Blackthorn," Janet says briskly, "this is Dr. Eleanor Hart. She'll be overseeing your rehabilitation program."
"Dr. Hart, thank you for taking my case." His voice is lower than I'd expected, with an educated quality to his diction that surprises me. This isn't the slurred speech of a typical street criminal.
His words are technically appropriate, but there's something underneath them. Quieter than menace. More patient than flirtation. More insidious. The kind of voice that makes you lean in, even when you know better.
"Mr. Blackthorn." I keep my voice level. "I've reviewed your file. This program represents a significant opportunity for rehabilitation, but success will depend entirely on your willingness to engage honestly with the process."
"Oh, I'm very interested in honesty, Dr. Hart." Again, that subtle emphasis makes innocent words sound loaded with meaning. "I find it fascinating how much people reveal when they think they're in control of the conversation."
A chill runs down my spine. This isn't the response I'd expected: defensive posturing, sullen cooperation, or calculated charm. Instead, Killian is studying me with the intensity of a scientist examining a particularly interesting specimen.
"We’ll fit the ankle monitor now," one guard declares, producing the device. "Any attempt to tamper with or remove it will result in immediate arrest and return to maximum security."
Killian extends his leg with casual compliance, but his eyes never leave my face. "Will I be riding with Dr. Hart?"
"The transport protocol—" Janet begins.
"Yes," I interrupt, not entirely sure why. "That's acceptable."
Janet's mouth pinches into a thin line, but she nods curtly. The ankle monitor is fitted, its green light blinking steadily against Killian's black pants. The handcuffs are removed, and now the space between us feels much smaller.
"The vehicle is equipped with a security partition," the lead guard informs me quietly. "And there's a panic button integrated into the seat controls. Any problems—"
"There won't be any problems, will there, Dr. Hart?"
Something about the way he says it pulls the air out of the room.
I find myself nodding, my heartbeat whooshing in my ears.
Seven years of training violent offenders, and I've never felt this vulnerable.
But I've read his file over and over. No record of sexual assault.
No violence against women. No indication that he targets anyone like me.
I remind myself of that and hold on to it.
It's the only thing that makes this feel like a risk I chose... instead of a mistake I can't take back.
We cross the pavement in silence, and I slide into the backseat first, my briefcase settling between us like a barrier I know won't help. Killian follows, folding his frame into the space with unsettling grace, and the door closes with a sound like a vault sealing.
I feel the air shift as he settles beside me, making my spine straighten instinctively. I shift ever so slightly away from him, enough to notice but too little to make a difference. Not because I'm afraid. Because I'm aware of him. And I shouldn't be.