I clap my hands together. “An introvert’s wet dream. Can’t wait.”
The door opens and I shift my gaze, keeping my amused expression in place. A man in his early fifties, with a trim salt-and-pepper beard and hair to match, walks in. His brown eyes land on my face, sharp and observing, giving him a perceptive air.
A psychologist. He’s going to be fun to fuck with.
“I’m Dr. Richards,” he says. “Before we begin, I want him confined to the chair.”
Smart man, but I doubt he’s more intelligent than me. Sucks to be him.
The guards roughly escort me to the metal chair that’s bolted to the floor. After securing my shackles and my handcuffs, the doctor’s forehead loses some of its wrinkles. He takes the unoccupied chair opposite of me.
“John Doe—”
“Ghost.”
The doctor nods. “Ghost, I’d like to talk to you about your current state of mind and your history. Can you start by telling me your real name?”
“No.Nein. And in Spanish for Deputy Garcia:No.” I wink at him.
“Do you feel safer hiding behind that name?” the psychologist asks.
“I don’t struggle with feelings of insecurity. The name was given to me by the Feds, and since it was catchy, I decided to adopt it.”
Dr. Richards adjusts his glasses, a flicker of intrigue crossing his features. “Names are powerful. They can define us. I want to understand you in order to help. Who were you before you became ‘Ghost’?”
I lean back as much as the restraints allow, testing the give of the cuffs on my wrists. “Before my fame? Just a regular John Doe. Boring and predictable.”
He smiles at my words, his gaze still analyzing every nuance of my expression and tone. “John Doe, the average Joe. But every man has a story. You turned yourself in to the police. That would indicate that you want your story told, Ghost. I’m here to listen.”
“My story is simple: I love to kill people.”
“Why is that?” he asks with a frown.
“It’s fun. Duh.”
Dr. Richards scribbles on his notepad before looking at me again, his gaze less indulgent. “What’s fun about it? Is it the act itself? The fear in their eyes?”
“If you’ve never done it, you won’t understand.” I shrug. “The first time was my favorite. I’ve been chasing the high ever since.”
“Feelings of euphoria can be addictive, but that rush of adrenaline can be achieved in other ways. Ways that don’t involve taking lives. Have you ever considered them?”
I pause, debating how much to play along while my mind churns. Until recently, I watched people plan their lives to gainsome measure of control. Then I would go about ruining said “plan” to wreak havoc and cause disruption, which happened to involve killing. A lot. It kept things interesting and my hands busy.
Idle hands are the devil’s work, after all.
But then I saw the most unadulterated, wrathful, and fucking beautiful demonstration of chaos a year ago… and it made me higher than cocaine. I’ve been obsessed with the source ever since.
So, yes, I’ve considered other alternatives to experience feelings of euphoria. And she’s it. The only thing that’s made me feel alive since my first murder.
Dr. Geneva Andrews is my toy.
And I won’t share her with anyone. Not this psychologist who thinks he can manipulate me. Not that fucking boyfriend of hers. Not even her profession and ironclad morals will stop me from playing with her.
Until she breaks into tiny little p
i
e
