“I’d love to take you to that new restaurant on Fifth Street,” Mason says. “We can order a bottle of wine and spend some time together.”
It wouldn’t matter if he wined and dined me every night; our interactions are purely transactional. I let him have sex with me and he brings me sexual relief.Sometimes.If I don’t come, neither does he.
“I’m busy tonight,” I say.
“Let me guess: You have another serial killer to profile in order to save lives and whatever?”
“Yes. You know I love my job.”
He huffs on the phone. I press my lips together as my annoyance grows. First, he insults my career. Then, he acts as though I’ve inconvenienced him. There’s no way I’m having sex with him now.
“Fine, Gen. Why don’t you call me when you’re ready to have sex or dinner or both.”
“Okay.”
I pull the phone away from my ear just as he says my name.With a shake of my head, I end the call. I don’t have time for Mason’s childish behavior. Not when there’s a real man to study.
A murderer, to be exact.
Today is the first time the public will lay eyes on Ghost in person. The only glimpse anyone has had of him is the single mugshot that’s been plastered across every news outlet.
His hair is pure white, making it hard to pinpoint his age, but his features place him somewhere in his thirties. His hazel-green eyes are bright with intelligence and his expression is confident. The way he looks at the camera in the picture displays a smirk filled with mockery, as if he’s amused by the whole ordeal.
Even from a still image, Ghost exudes charisma, a raw magnetism that unnerves me. Then there’s the scar on his right cheek, starting at the corner of his eye and slashing down to the edge of his mouth. It does nothing to detract from his physical appearance. If anything, it adds to his appeal. The mark speaks of violence but also survival.
What has he gone through?
He’s refused every interview, denied every request to tell his story or explain his misdeeds.
People all across the country have heard about Ghost and started to romanticize him. They write letters to him, send him gifts, and post on social media about how they’d do anything to be with him. It’s off-putting to me as a woman, but fascinating from a psychological standpoint to witness a whole contingent, made up mostly of women, viewing him as a tragic misunderstood figure, as opposed to the cold-blooded killer he really is.
Hybristophilia:the attraction to someone who’s committed a heinous crime.
It’s a twisted form of admiration that’s borne from a desperate need to connect with someone powerful. Even if that power comes from violence. These people believe they see something in Ghost that no one else does, and that they can “fix” him.
Idiots.
Deep down, I understand Ghost’s appeal. My education gives me the ability to diagnose behavior, label it, and distance myself from it. But as a woman, it’s hard not to acknowledge reality. And the fact is that Ghost is ridiculously attractive.
I sigh with relief when I’m finally allowed entrance into the courtroom. Of its own accord, my gaze scans the room for Ghost and I find the defendant’s table empty. I imagine him sitting there soon and anticipation swells in my chest. It’s hard to manage my intrigue when Ghost is arguably the most interesting man alive.
Good looks aside, he’s captured the public’s attention in a way few criminals do.
He turned himself in.
Ghost has refused to explain why, after years of killing, he decided to accept punishment for his gruesome crimes. He’s rumored to be remarkably intelligent, so why would he risk a death sentence?
The sound of my heels clicking against the polished marble is swallowed by the murmurs of those already present. I choose the first available aisle seat closest to the front, sliding onto the wooden bench and double checking that my cell phone is on silent. Once that’s done, I retrieve my pen and notepad, placing them on my lap before rearranging my pencil skirt and straightening my sleeves. Then I wait.
More people file in, each one quickly grabbing their seats. A man with dark hair in a crisp beige suit takes the spot next to me. He gives me a curt nod that I return, my expression cool but polite.
A hush falls over the crowd as the bailiff stands.
“Ladies and gentlemen, as we prepare to commence with today’s proceedings, please remember to turn off all electronic devices. There will be no talking or disruptions during the hearing. Anyone who fails to adhere to these rules will immediately be escorted from the courtroom.”
The man beside me mutters a profanity in Italian and retrieves his cell phone from his pocket. I keep him in my peripheral vision, watching as he changes the volume on his phone. Once he puts it away, I relax a little and go back to scanning the room.
Anxious murmurs and quiet conversation circulate between the occupants, creating a buzzing sound that weaves through the room. The noise, the scent of polished wood, and the sunlight beaming through the clerestory windows tickle my senses, dredging up memories.
