My first case with a serial killer.
I take another breath and adjust my glasses. The leather of my gloves squeaks against the doorknob as sweat gathers in my palms.
I face my reflection staring back from the glass doorway.
My long blond hair falls straight down my back, catching on the collar of my coat as I move. The belt cinched around my waist feels too tight, pulled one knot harder than it needed to be in my frantic rush to get here. My jaw stays locked. My thin-rimmed glasses sit on my small, upturned nose, and my jade eyes catch the hallway light in a way that makes them look too bright. My lips are full from anxious biting, flushed red against skin that seems even paler under the cold morning light.
“Emily Beckett, pull your shit together. You can do this.” The words scrape out of me, barely a whisper, but enough to make my fingers close around the handle.
I push the door open and step inside.
A guard stands posted by the entrance, and farther down the hall, two nurses lean against a desk, whispering to each other. Whatever it was, it stopped the instant they noticed me.
I force myself forward.
Their gaze tracks me the whole way, moving over me in a slow sweep that says exactly what they’re thinking:I don’t belong here.
Maybe I never will.
Before that settles in my chest, I lift my ID.
“Dr. Emily Beckett. I’m here to see patient Zayne Mercer.”
Whatever amusement they had disappeared as quickly as it appeared. One nurse hands me a visitor badge without a word, and the other one motions for me to follow.
“Thank you,” I managed, falling into step behind her.
She doesn’t respond. I don’t need conversation, but I want it. I rehearsed what I would say to the monster all night, practicing until the words blurred together and I could barely remember why I was even here.
I blink twice when we stop in front of the visitation room. Several metal tables stand scattered around, most of them empty, but one occupied.
She opens her mouth but hesitates. A breath escapes her.
“He doesn’t eat, sleep, or talk,” she says. She steps closer, lowering her voice, and whispers, “He just watches. All the time.”
I swallow hard.
She steps back and pushes the door open for me. I walk in, and before I can turn, she shuts it behind me.
The low hum of the ventilation fills the room, vibrating through the vents. The fluorescent lights flicker slowly above me, making my heart beat even faster than it did just a second before.
I step farther inside.
The room feels smaller once the door closes. Just three metal tables with five chairs. All arranged like they are waiting for someone, anyone, to sit. And at the very back, chained to the floor by a cuff around his ankle, sits the man whose murders have paralyzed an entire state.
Zayne Mercer.
His head is down, dark hair falling in an overgrown tangle around his face. His wrists are bound to the chair’s frame, but he doesn’t strain against them. He doesn’t move at all.
I can’t even tell if he is breathing.
For a moment, the only sound is my own heartbeat slamming against my ribs. I adjust my glasses again to steady my hands.
“Mr. Mercer,” I say, forcing my voice not to crack. “My name is Dr. Emily Beckett. I’m here to—“
His head lifts slowly.
Too slow.
