January 3rd, 1996. 

 

The warden headed toward the office. “Dr. Evans, I feel the need to warn you that Cox is a level three inmate.” His brow furrowed as he watched for her reaction. “I’ll be leaving Michaels with you.” 

Marlena scooted her chair up to the marked line four feet away from the shackled man in the room. “I appreciate the concern, and I am aware of the risk, but I don’t conduct sessions that way. Michaels can wait outside the office.” 

She met his squinted gaze. “I’m sure if Cox was too much risk, we’d be conducting this session in a cell rather than here. Correct?” And he knew for damn certain that was not happening. 

In her first year out of college, she spent every weekday locked inside a cell with prisoners. Trying to get into their twisted minds. She still had nightmares—the sound of a cell door clanging shut, the pound of feet and chains against concrete floors. The catcalls and riots. Those iron bars haunted her. 

 

If the warden wanted to continue her contract with the facility, then sessions will continue to be conducted under her terms. With a dismissive wave of his hand, the warden left. The officer gave her a curt nod before he exited the therapy room. A few seconds later, the sound of her office door closing echoed around them. 

 

The hum of the fluorescent light filled the sudden, stark silence. Without looking up, she opened the file on her lap and scanned the details. “Inmate number six-zero-nine. Ethan Gerard Cox. What do you like to go by?” 

The silence stretched, forcing her to glance up. He was no longer staring at the floor; his eyes were trained on her face. In this lighting, she couldn’t tell if they were blue or green, but his bright, steely irises were surrounded by a thick fringe of lashes. His short-cropped hair was the standard cut for all inmates and provided a glimpse at several white scars along his neck. 

“I’ll need to refer to you by something,” she prompted. The man in front of her didn’t respond. She used his lack of communication to quickly read over his file. She was typically given a week to learn about her patients; she liked to have a treatment plan in place before the introduction. But considering the circumstance, she’d have to assess him first. 

Fine. 

She closed the file and set it on the armrest. “We don’t have to do introductions, but you should know my name is Dr. –” 

“I know who you are.” The deep bass of his voice hit her chest. He closed off again just as quickly, those unblinking eyes staring through her with uninhibited confidence. It has been a long time since a patient unnerved her. 

 

Marlena cleared her throat. “Then you’ve had the privilege of researching me before I could look into you. That puts me at a disadvantage, Ethan.” She chose to call him by his first name, something other than what the warden and guards referred to him as. It was not much of a reaction, but a muscle jumped along his jaw at her use of his given name. “Your file says you’ve been convicted of four murders,” she continued, maintaining eye contact. “You’ve served a year of a life sentence.” He didn’t deny the murders. 

At least that was a start. 

Half the convicts that made their way to her office were still pleading their cases. Researching the law and harassing lawyers. 

“There were no bodies,” she said. 

He nodded. 

“So you are holding out hope for an appeal.” 

“Only stating the facts, Dr. Evans.” Her name rolled off his tongue in a smooth cadence, inflecting a slight accent. She was trying to place it when what he said registered. 

Four murder convictions with no bodies. 

A recollection came to mind, and she tilted her head. “Body of the crime.” 

“That’s correct.” 

“No victims found at the scenes, but there was enough blood and evidence to prove murders had occurred,” She said, recalling the details. “Then, during the investigation, videos were discovered. Footage of the murdered victims. The videos were leaked and went viral.” 

 

His identity was hidden from the media during the trial. An attempted to keep the press from turning him into a vigilante. Marlena pulled out her phone and said to Synthiya: Cancel the rest of my appointments for today. 

“So tell me,” she officially began their introduction, “why did you refuse to see me a year ago? And why are you here now?” The stare-off continued, but she didn’t really need an answer. What Warden Roger revealed about his upcoming trial was enough for her to form an educated guess. Ethan was about to be convicted in another state—one that has the death penalty. 

He wanted her to save his life.

 

January 10th, 1996. 

 

Marlena Evans had quirks. 

Likes and dislikes. 

Fears. 

All the little intricate details that made up her personality. 

He loved dissecting her. She let her blonde hair, fall down to her shoulders. 

She painted her nails. 

She always left one infuriating button undone on her blouse. 

She crossed her legs. 

That was, until they talked about his deeds, then he watched her cross those long legs, thighs squeezed tight. 

She enjoyed complication. Her smiles weren’t rare. Her approval, not hard to earn. But the single most interesting thing about his shrink was this: He made her curious. Not in a professional sense—though he was sure that was how it started; a small flame sparked into existence—but the deep-seated, scary curious. The kind of curious that drove good girls bad. 

He’d love to tangle her up in his web and feast. 

“What do you see?” Soft, thin fingers peeked around the edge of a board. On the front, a black and red ink blot splashed against white. 

 

You.

 

“I see a butterfly.” Marlena lowered the board, her expression unreadable. At least, she strove for neutral. But he glimpsed the irritation beneath her mask. She was desperate to crack him. Wiggle inside his head and crawl around. A week together, and she still didn’t get it. There was nothing to be found. He was not here for himself, to resolve his psychotic tendencies. To be rehabilitated with the hopes of reentering society. 

He was here for her. 

 

“You like games?” she asked, setting the stack of inkblots aside. A smile curled his lips. He liked playing games with her. 

“It depends on the game.” 

“Do you see our time together as a game?”

Questions. 

Always tedious questions with her. 

She turned every reply into one. Refusing to let him inside her head. He adjusted his feet, the rattle of his shackles loud in the still office. 

“This isn’t really our time, is it?” 

Her soft brow creased. “You feel that I’m not committed to your treatment?” 

“No,” he said, sitting forward, as much as his chains would allow. “I feel you’re very committed. Just to the wrong thing. Do you believe rehabilitation is possible?” 

Her hazel eyes blinked. “I won’t lie to you, Ethan. I have my doubts. But we won’t know if it’s a possibility for you unless you take our time together seriously.” 

Interesting. 

“I like when you answer my questions.” 

She attempted to hide a smile. Crossed her legs. He inhaled a deep breath, trying to taste her excitement. 

“My answers won’t help you, Evans.” 

“How do you know?” Her hands moved to her lap. She kept her gaze steady on him, but he saw the anxious need to stride around her office. She hid it well—almost as well as she hid the marks on her wrists—but he’d caught them once. He wondered what happened to her. “You said you have doubts,” he said, keeping the tables turned. “But what if it’s not doubt. What if you don’t want rehabilitation to work.” 

Her mouth popped open. Before she could blurt a practiced retort, she checked herself. “Why would I not want it to work?” 

He shrugged as he eased back into the chair. “Because seeking the answer on how to fix the sick and deviant is boring. You’re really seeking to understand why you’re so drawn to it. Which is far more interesting.” 

 

She let a faint smile slip-free. “That’s a logical leap. Of course, I’m drawn to it, and fascinated with my study. Understanding your compulsion to punish and kill people—” 

“I’ve never killed people.” 

 

None of them were human. 

 

Her lips thinned. “Why traps, Ethan?” Her question tensed his shoulders. This wasn’t what he wanted to talk about. 

“Why not traps? Aren’t we all victims of some sort of trap? A wife trapped in an unhappy marriage. A child trapped in a loveless family. A woman trapped in a profitless, unfulfilling career.”

 

“Do you see yourself as a god? Granting your victims redemption?” 

She could do better than this. She was better than this tired psychobabble. 

“No, I see myself as a hunter. They’re not victims; they’re predators stalking the woods in search of prey. If they fall into the hunter’s trap, then they were in a place they never should have been.” 

She wetted her lips. Her tongue peeked out to tease him. One of her sins: seduction.

“This room is designed like a trap,” he continued. “You lure the mentally ill in with promises of recovery and freedom. Maybe not physical freedom, but freedom from their demons. Once they’re shackled—” I tugged at his restraint “—you feast on their horror stories in the name of psychology. You feed off them, sating your own twisted curiosities. And then you publish your papers on the poor damned souls that never had a chance. You reap glory off the murderers and from the victims themselves.” 

 

Her sigh was heavy and breathy. It slid over his skin, making the distance between them unbearable. 

“Have you always been this judgmental?” 

This line of questioning was getting them nowhere. 

“No, but I’ve always liked puzzles.” 

“Puzzles,” she repeated. “Why is that?” 

A memory from his childhood flickered across his vision, unbidden. He tamped it down. “I like the mechanics, the way each piece has a purpose, a place. The way it simply belongs.” 

 

Marlena uncrossed her legs and straightened her back, sitting taller in the chair. “Where do you feel you belong, Ethan?” 

 

Oh, if she only knew how loaded that question was. But it was not his purpose for why he was there; this wasn’t about his story. This was about her. Where she fits into the puzzle. It was time they started peeling back her layers. He held her gaze, unblinking. 

“With you, Dr. Evans. I belong right here with you.” 

A tense battle of wills arced between them, where neither one was willing to be the first to look away. If he came on too strong, if she became too aware, then she could request his transfer. He decided it was better not to chance it by provoking her and averted his eyes to the chain resting against his leg. 

“I refused your interview a year ago,” he said, finally giving her the answer to her question during their first session, “because I didn’t trust you.” He looked up. 

 

Her bright eyebrows arched. “And you trust me now?” 

 

Dr. Marlena Evans had a reputation of getting convicted murderers a lighter or reduced sentence. She humanized monsters. She tamed the untamable. She was the answer to every serial killer on death row—their angel of mercy. But beneath that façade, a devil lurked. 

It has taken him months to accept that she was put in his path for a reason. At first, he refused any connection to her. They couldn’t be farther apart on the spectrum—and yet, her name kept coming to him, a chant my his damned soul recognized as kindred. He leaned forward, getting as close to her as his restraints allow. 

“I trust in the inevitable.” 

His response unnerved her. 

The delicate column of her throat jumped as she maintained an unaffected expression. “At some point, all your victims’ fates were inevitable to you. Do you view me as a victim? Have I committed some sin that I’m unaware of?” Her twisty words brought a real smile to his face. Was she aware? 

Or was the ruse a part of her seduction? He didn’t have the answer. 

Not yet. 

He needed all the pieces of her puzzle first. All he knew for sure was that she had a story. Her story was a volatile one.

He read the newspapers.

He knew what she did.

 

“You’re twisting things,” he said. “But you’re not wrong. All sinners are first victims. Everyone who lashes out to harm, has suffered harm themselves.” He ran his hands over his thighs, staring at the gleaming metal of his cuffs. “It’s a simple yin yang; dark and light feeding each side and devouring. A snake eating its own tail. A vicious cycle.” 

 

Marlena didn’t use a notepad to write down their sessions. She recorded them, watched them played back to her. She used the here and now to process his words. Silence build between them as she took her time sorting her voiced thoughts. 

“You feel you’re powerless against the cycle, Ethan?” 

His gaze snapped to hers. His hands itch to tear the chains so he could stare into her eyes unobstructed. 

“None of us are powerless. Choice is the most powerful thing in this world. Everyone has a choice.” 

She pulled her bottom lip between her teeth, that small action igniting his skin. He curled his hands into fists as he awaited her next question. 

“That’s a powerful statement in itself,” she said, surprising him. “Yet if you render your victims helpless, forced to make only the choices you provide them, then they’re not truly free to choose, are they?” 

He unclenched his hands. His fingers splayed across his lap. He wiggled an inch beneath her skin. He could see it in the way she touched her wrists, anxious. 

“Much like our sessions,” he said. 

Her eyebrows knit together. “How do you mean?” 

He lifted his arms and rattled the chains. “If we were on even ground, able to voice our thoughts truthfully, then my answers might be different.” He eyed her closely. “And your questions, I bet, would be much different.” 

 

She was so still, if he blinked, he could miss the slight tremor of her hands. He kept his gaze trained on her face.

She broke the connection first this time and looked at the wall clock. “That’s enough for today.” 

 

January 11th, 1996. 

 

Ethan was extremely intelligent. His file stated genius. With an IQ of 151, he saw the world differently than the average person. He saw people differently. He saw her differently. She held the remote outstretched, ready to fast-forward to the end, but she changed her mind. To know her subject—to get inside their head and understand them, learn their motivations—she had to endure what they borne. Majority of the time, she’d limited in how close she could get to a patient. 

Ethan recording his “sessions” with his victims presented a unique opportunity to peel back the layers and study his impulses. This was what she told herself as she sat through hours of footage, “Christ.” 

She ejected the disc and placed it inside the case to be returned to the detective. She glanced at the pile of cases on her desk, the recorded deaths of Ethan’s victims. Before she could talk herself out of it, she stuffed the cases in her bag. 

A while ago, she chose not to bring her work home with her, but ever since she had gotten back home, the place felt hunted. She slept on the couch. Too many bad memories were in that bedroom. The exorcism was over a month ago, and yet, it was too painful being there.

This was something to keep her busy, to keep her mind from scattering.

 

January 16th, 1996. 

 

She adjusted the video recorder, centering the frame on Ethan’s face. “Tell me what you’re thinking.” 

When he said nothing, she turned around and moved out of the view. “We’re going to try something different,” she said. “I’m not going to ask questions. I just want you to talk about whatever’s on your mind.” 

He ran his palms over the top of his head. His hair has started to grow out. She put in an order to the corrections officers not to shave his head until he has been released from therapy. She wanted to see if hiding his scars has any effect on his overall demeanor and reactions to her. So far, he hasn’t revealed the source of his scars, or whether or not they appear anywhere else on his body. Judging by the long-sleeved thermals he chose to wear beneath his jumpsuit despite the unseasonably warm spring weather, she thought it was a safe assumption that he was concealing more. 

 

There were many ways to hide scars; both physical and emotional ones. The physical scars were easy enough to disguise. She knew this from experience. She was not as interested in those, but rather his emotional wounds—the ones that likely led to his disorder. 

“Do I get my official diagnosis today, doc?” Ethan’s accent was heavy this morning. He sounded weary. After Their first month, she bumped the sessions up to three times a week. The sooner she determined a treatment plan for Ethan, the sooner she could return to her other patients full time. 

 

She feared some may start to suffer from her neglect, but it was best to focus her undivided attention on Ethan rather than risk their mental health while being sidetracked. With less than two months left until the trial, there was very little she could offer in way of defense. 

She should end the sessions…but she was greedy. A death row serial killer with a media presence makes for an interesting case study, yes—but it was more than that. He had answers. 

Before the discovery of the videotapes, he was able to blend seamlessly into society. He held a steady job. Fostered romantic relationships. Though none were serious, the guise was that of a normal, functioning male adult. He fed his sadistic needs and compulsions without taking a life. Not by his own hands; he forced his victims to kill for him. He has answers, and he was keeping them to himself. 

 

Marlena laced her arms across her chest. After a month of intensive interviews, She was still reluctant to paste a label on him. “Would giving you a diagnosis make a difference during our sessions?” 

He tsked with a shake of his head. 

“You asked a question.” She held her stern expression in place. Lately, she has been enjoying her work too much. A sort of ease has settled between them, where this comfortable banter started to develop. 

Ethan’s charm was disarming. 

It was a part of his ruse. The mecca of his personality. But it was shallow; only the tip of the iceberg. She wanted to excavate below that surface. Even if she has to chisel away at the ice little by little. “I won’t ask another. You can go ahead and start wherever you’d like.” 

 

“What do you most want to know?” 

A catch in her breath revealed how badly she wanted to ask him a particular question. His gaze dragged over her body, slow and intense. If she hadn’t been studying him so closely, she might assume it was a sexual perusal—but this was how Ethan read people. He gave them a smidgen of what they desired in order to analyze their tells. He did this so intuitively, she was in a constant state of awareness trying to control her micro-expressions. It was like a ping pong match as she continually bounced his focus off of her and back onto him. 

 

“How about you start with your career,” she suggested. He looked disinterested in her choice of topic, but she only needed him to relax into the conversation. This session’s purpose was about recording his facial expressions. I wanted a base comparison for his comfort level and emotional cues. As they dove deeper into his psyche, she’d need to be able to read him as easily as he read her. His chains clatter against the floor as he eased into the chair. “I worked with my hands,” he stated simply. 

She had to restrain herself from asking him to elaborate on that point. His lips quirked into a knowing grin. Ethan didn’t smile; he leered. She was sure in the outside world where his charm was a weapon. 

 

His eyes traveled over her body again and, this time, she felt their intrusion. She meticulously selected a tight pencil skirt that accentuates her curves. Her blouse was unbuttoned down to the swell of her breasts. She stood at the door to her closet for a long time, thinking about which outfit would distract Ethan. This was strictly a psychological tactic; to beguile him in the hopes that he’d reveal more during today’s session. And yet, it didn’t stop the heat from gathering between her thighs as his gaze hungrily devoured her. 

He took his time. 

When his gaze settled on her face, he said, “Welding. Off the coast. Hyperbaric welding, or underwater welding, as it’s more commonly known. I worked on ships and pipelines.” 

 

She knew this much. 

All the easily attainable information she’d imprinted into her mind. She waited for him to continue, but she was getting impatient. Why does a man with an IQ of 151 choose to work with his hands? 

He released a heavy breath. 

“Yes, I liked it,” he answered her unspoken question, and she allowed a small smile to slip free. 

She waited. 

Watch his tongue travel over his bottom lip. A grin hiked the corner of his mouth. “Look how tense you are,” he said. “The need to ask your little questions tightening every muscle in your body. Especially those thighs.” His gaze dropped to her legs, and she slipped behind her chair, removing her legs from his line of sight. 

“Go ahead. Ask.” 

“Why welding?” 

“You mean, why didn’t I go to college and pursue a career more befitting to my intelligence level?” 

Marlena lifted her chin. “In fact, that’s exactly what I mean. Didn’t your parents encourage your education?” 

He’s refused to discuss his parents with her so far. She won’t stop pushing for the answers. He rolled his shoulders. “My ‘parents’ encouraged me out as little as possible.” 

 

She craned an eyebrow, anticipating more on the subject, but he looked away. “The ocean is quiet,” he said instead. “When you’re down there, not even your thoughts are loud. It all just fades into the background of this tranquil, marine scenery.” 

She glanced at the water glass on impulse. 

“I think you crave the same thing,” he said, drawing her attention to him. She didn’t confirm or deny his claim. “Aren’t you going to ask, doctor?” 

She shook her head slowly. “This isn’t about me. I’m not interested in what my thoughts are on the matter, only yours.” 

“But aren’t you dying to know what I think you crave?” 

 

Yes.

For some reason she did.

Why?

 

The answer burnt through her, scorching the back of her throat as she held it there. He hiked his pants up his thighs as he sat forward. “I bet you crave that same moment of solitude after the year you had.” 

A light laugh escaped. “So you’re the doctor now?” 

His expression opened, stealing her breath. “I’d love to ask you questions. I’d like that game a lot.” 

If this was what will let his guard fall—even for a fraction of a second so she could capture it—then she’d play. “All right, I accept.” She moved into her chair and crossed her legs at the ankle. 

“No, Ethan. I don’t crave solitude, because I want my family and friends close.” She raised her eyebrows challengingly. 

“It’s not the same,” he countered. “Being lonely and solitude are two different things.” 

Marlena forced her lungs to expand past the tightness. “Is that how you see me? Lonely?” He shook his head. “I’m the doctor today. I’m asking the questions. Are you lonely?” 

She swiped her tongue over her teeth in an attempt to hide her reactive frown. “At times, yes. Everyone feels lonely every once in a while. That’s human nature.” 

 

He became engrossed in the game, in his performance. “You think you handle it better than most, though. Don’t you? Why? Because you’re a psychiatrist?” 

She bit back a laugh. “No, because I don’t need—” She stopped herself short. 

His head tilted. “You don’t need what? Relationships? You feel guilty for what you did while he was inside you. Don’t you.” 

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she confessed. 

The corner of his mouth kicked up. “A psychiatrist that doesn’t want to talk. How do you explain that?” 

She huffed out a breath. “I’m not interested in talking about it,” she clarified. “What happened to me, and how it changed me as a person, has nothing to do with you. I prefer to analyze you. Not me and my past.” 

He laced his hands together on his lap, his gaze hard on her. “That’s either the most truthful response, or the most elusive. Which, either way, reveals your fear.”

 

A cold splash against the back of her neck froze all movement. 

“My fear. Are you going to diagnose me, Dr. Cox?”

He sat back, breaking eye contact. “Haven’t you already diagnosed yourself by now?”

“That’s a logical assumption.” 

And a wrong one. She’d never analyzed herself. Not even in college, when every psych student was dissecting their own brain. Back then, she had a theory that before one was able to diagnose another, one has to first exercise their mental demons.

A very difficult task. She soon realized it was easier to co-exist with her demons rather than expel them. Once she accepted that, it was easy enough to move ahead, to succeed even. And she succeeded. Right to the top of her class.

 

“A logical assumption,” Ethan repeated. “Is it a logical assumption, then, that you’re a pathological liar?”

He wanted to bait her. 

Get a reaction. 

Marlena straightened her back. Ethan’s eyebrows drew together. Not enough to denote concern, but just slightly to reveal he noticed her discomfort.

 

“Do you feel I’ve lied to you?” she asked.

“No,” he said. “I don’t think you lie to your patients. I think you lie to yourself. Especially about your fears.”

 

She kept her tone low and unemotional. “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 are, well—” she laughed “—then we might lose the will to live.”

 

“Lose the will to live. That’s interesting.” He inched closer, staring at her as if he was puzzling her out. He liked puzzles.

 

She pressed back farther into the chair. Touched her forehead, willing the sudden ache away. “Have you given much thought to the outcome of the trial?” she hedged.

 

“What are you trying to protect yourself from, Marlena?”

“What?”

“You said lying to yourself is a defense mechanism. I want to know what you’re trying so hard to avoid. What do you need protection from?”

 

She grasped the arms of her chair and pulled herself up to stand. “I’m not playing your head games, Ethan. Indulgent time is over.”

 

“Who hurt you?” He rose from his seat so quickly, she reacted, retreating as his chains snapped taut.

Her gaze went to her desk, to where the hidden panic button was positioned beneath its edge. Ethan tracked her line of sight, then he looked at her. 

“Go ahead. Press it,” he dared.

She lifted her chin, controlling her breathing. “If I do, then this will be our last session.”

Dejection filled his eyes before he was able to mask his expression. She reminded herself that it was not true emotion; he was a manipulator.

 

He proved this when he stepped back and rubbed his neck. “I would miss our time together, Dr. Evans. You are helping me.”

Want to know when you’re being lied to? 

Look for the manipulator’s tell: a tug of the ear, a touch of the hair. Rubbing the neck. Only with Ethan, she was undecided if he was lying about her helping him or whether he’d miss her.

 

“You want me to believe that you didn’t just do that on purpose?”

He attempted a confused countenance, but he couldn’t hold it for long. His smile stretched wide, that dimple carving his cheek. Her legs quivered under his spell. “Maybe I want you to question which part of all this is true.”

 

“Mission accomplished. If you purposely set out to manipulate these sessions, then I have to believe you wish to die. 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 curled into fists. 

His physical restraint rattled the chains, his tensed muscles evident beneath his jumpsuit. She felt a tremor of anger rolling off him. It was the first real reaction she’d witnessed; a true emotion.

 

She threatened him.

 

“You are not a game,” he said through clenched teeth.

 

She sucked in a fortifying breath. “I have deception training. You may be skilled in the art of deceit, but I’m skilled in detecting it, Ethan. I want the truth.”

“Lying to you wouldn’t benefit me. I want you to experience the truth.”

The way he said this…the phrasing—experience the truth, rather than simply wanting her to know it—it was deliberate. 

Her skin tingled.

 

“Did you enjoy making your victims suffer? Did you enjoy their torture, their deaths?” Her words were just as selective. She needed to understand if he was a sadist or if it was a facade. With his defenses lowered, she’d get a clear read.

 

“I did,” he admitted. “I enjoyed it. Not one bit of guilt.”

 

Marlena freed a tense breath. “You can’t feel guilt or regret if you derive pleasure from others’ suffering and pain. So is it pleasurable? Are you aroused when your victims suffer? Do you achieve sexual gratification and release?”

His expression morphed into one of pure ecstasy as his eyes glazed over, like he was recalling his memories. And when he found her past the haze, those vivid green eyes zeroing in on her, she felt it in her core—his intensity a pulsing ache that forced her thighs together. “It’s unfair that you know my secrets,” he said, “and I don’t have any of yours.”

 

“Is that an admission?” she forced the subject.

 

He nodded once, a confirmation. “I was born this way. I’ve spent years trying to figure out the why. Then I got bored, and then I was tired. What matters now is how I choose to channel my…sadistic nature. If that’s what you want to label it.”

 

She lifted her head, jaw set. “I do label it as that. You’re also delusional if you believe you’re channeling your sadism for the better. That you’re a hero, using your disorder to punish the guilty. That’s not how it works, Ethan. You do not get to be the judge, jury, and executioner.”

“And yet I am,” he said, sinking down into the chair. “It’s just a simple choice to accept who we are. You can relate. You channel your condition through your work.”

 

An arctic splash of fear snatched the air from her lungs.

 

“It’s why I’m here,” he continued. “Why did you choose me over others in the waiting room. You made a choice. One that benefits you. Just admit it. Admit that you were born as free as me so we can move past this meaninglessness and find out what we’re really capable of.”

 

She stepped back, putting more distance between them so she could take a breath not laced with his scent. 

“What do you want, Ethan?” A simple question, but the answer will determine everything.

 

His steely gaze latched on to her. “I want to live. And I want you.”

“Ethan.’

Time suspended. 

It was the honesty she read in his eyes that kept her locked in this torturous moment. She was aware that she was becoming a part of his disorder; she was the only outside source he has to form a connection—but she refused to shut it down. 

She could use it. 

Ethical? No. Not at all. 

 

She tossed her hair, clearing her vision. “In your circumstance, you can only have one pursuit. Since you value choices so much, I suggest you choose wisely.” Marlena broke the connection further by turning toward the writing desk and grabbing her notebook. “Symphorophilia. Do you know this term?”

 

“Paraphilia is sexual deviation.” He smirked, his stare expectant. “I did my homework before our first meeting. Labeling me a deviant is nothing new.”

 

She cocked an eyebrow. “But your particular deviation is,” she countered. “There’s no empirical research on the topic of symphorophilia.” Which was partly why she won’t stop the sessions. A documentation on a confirmed subject would be a first of its kind, and the only research to feature a serial killer. Her other reasons were her own personal motivation.

“I can feel your excitement,” Ethan said, smile stretching. “Or is that arousal?” He sniffed the air, making her flush.

 

She licked her lips and flipped her notebook open. “The broad definition is simple: you experience sexual gratification from staging disasters. That is too simple, however. Your particular psychopathy is sadistic symphorophilia. We’re going to delve deeper, discover why you turned to psychodrama theatrics instead of setting fires or staging traffic wrecks. And your victimology… Your victim selection process is key.”

 

Most psychiatrists are relieved when they finally have an explanation, some measure of understanding as to why they are the way they are, even if they revolt against reform.

Not Ethan. 

The downturned edges of his mouth and drawn eyebrows denoted his dissatisfaction.

“You don’t agree with my diagnosis?” His even breaths were audible in the quiet space between them. 

“Every lock has a key.”

She frowned. “It was figurative.”

 

She walked to the edge of her desk and leaned against the solid wood. A farther distance from him than when seated in her chair, and the strength she needed to support her weight.