She shakes her head weakly and whispers, “No.”
Her eyes lock onto my hands as I lift the two metal bars.
I move to her head, dragging the cable behind me.
“Oh, I’m not going to hurt you,” I say softly. “Tsk tsk tsk.”
I step to the top of the table, where her head rests, and press the cold metal against her temples.
Her body flinches at the touch.
“I’m just going to,” I laugh quietly, “free your mind.”
I turn the ECT machine on.
The current surges through her temples. Her eyes squeeze shut as her body shakes violently against the restraints. Hermuscles lock, then release. Her jaw clamps down hard, too hard. Blood seeps from her gums as her teeth grind together.
Her eyes snap open, rolling back as the shaking intensifies. I keep the metal pressed firmly in place as my grip steadies.
I laugh again.
Her body thrashes harder now, chest straining for breath. I lean closer, then lift the metal away from her temples. Her body still trembles as I speak near her ear.
“That boy on the second floor,” I say quietly, “the one you like to touch, sends his regards.”
I step back and turn off the ECT machine. The hum dies instantly. I crouch down and pick up the scalpel from the floor, my fingers closing around the handle.
My mind races, listing all the possibilities of how long I could make this last. Then I decided not to.
I press the scalpel beneath her jaw and slice.
Her eyes fly open. A wet gurgle escapes her mouth as blood pours from the wound, spilling down her neck, soaking the table, and dripping onto the floor.
I can hear footsteps in the distance.
I have to move fast.
I head for the door and slip into the corridor, keeping my steps light as I make my way toward Dr. Beckett’s office.
The alarm sounds. Screams rise behind me. Everyone is panicking, and I’m just ignoring them.
The distraction is for them, not for me. All I need is the information. After that, I can return to my cell and let them believe my mind blacked out under the dose of electroshock therapy Dr. Emily Beckett prescribed.
And that is precisely what I do.
As staff rush toward the room with the dead woman, I move in the opposite direction.
The front entrance is locked. The windows are sealed. Chaos fills the whole floor, and not a single person notices me as I pass the reception desk.
I slip into the corridor lined with offices.
I glanced back once. Then again. No one is following.
I stop in front of the door marked seven, and I enter the code and slide inside, closing the door behind me.
This is her office, but not a single thing inside belongs to her.
No photographs. No personal items. Nothing that suggests this office is hers. The room feels empty, with boxes filled with patient files stacked neatly along the walls. Behind the desk, a bookshelf is packed tight with volumes on criminal psychology, spines worn from use.
