Despite all these long months of Eastman’s shadow haunting my nightmares and plaguing my sleep, I never prepared for this. I never thought it was actually possible. I thought I was safe.
Last I knew, he was still in a maximum security prison. How did someone escape that?
Stay focused, Kat. And don’t take your eyes off of him.
I know better than to take a step backwards or to try and run. This man is an apex predator through and through. A familiar draft ripples along the back of my neck. He had promised he would find me, hadn’t he? Come back to “finish what I started.” This was inevitable. It felt silly now, to ever think that I was safe from him. Safety is always an illusion.
No, I wouldn’t run. My best bet is probably to get him talking. After all, that’s what I do best, right? I get inside people’s heads. And I had already been inside of his before. A little shiver runs down my spine and pools like an icy lake in my belly.
“You sent the email from Western State?” I ask quietly.
Eastman nods at me slowly, his eyes unblinking.
“Ok. How… how are you here, Gary?” I ask, trying to infuse as much forced calm into my voice as possible. He doesn’t answer but instead continues to regard me with a slight tilt of his head. “You look different, Doc.”
“Don’t call me that,” I snap. It comes out more desperate and scared then I intend. I just can’t stand to hear the nickname that Zayn has so lovingly claimed come out of this monster’s mouth.
“Oh, but that’s what you are, Doc. A young, beautiful, and well regarded, state-assigned doctor. Assigned just to me,” he laughs mirthlessly again. “Don’t you remember what you said, Doc? In your report?”
Of course, I fucking remembered it. I wrote it.But I wasn’t going to play his game. I press my lips together into a firm line once again. Sending a silent prayer that this encounter won’t end the way that I fear it will, I glance down at the knife clasped in his hand. The blade’s sharp tip illuminated red from the dim orangey light filtering in from outside.
“Tsk, tsk, tsk, Doc,” Eastman says.
And never breaking eye contact, he then proceeds to quote fully from memory the words from my own court report that contained his psychological evaluation.
“Gary Jones Eastman has plead not guilty by reason of insanity. However, his psychological evaluation shows no presence of dissociation, or sociopathy. Instead, Mr. Eastman demonstrates a full and complete understanding of the depraved and cruel nature and quality of his acts. He continues to display little to no genuine remorse for his actions and crimes. It is therefore the recommendation of this court-appointed psychologist that Mr. Eastman not be eligible for parole, but instead continue to serve out the remainder of his time at Western State Hospital in Washington.”
A heavy silence fraught with the scent of rain and my growing fear fills the space.
Holding his gaze, I nod.“Y-yes. That is what I wrote. And I stand by it, Gary.”
I know that psychologically speaking, using someone’s name can be a powerful tool to forge a sense of connection. However futile it may be, I’m not going to go down without at least trying to use my skills to save myself.
While maintaining eye contact, I attempt to surreptitiously move sideways to the left, towards where the letter opener lies benignly on my desk. As I could have predicted, Eastman’s eyes fall immediately to my shifting body, and he takes another menacing step towards me.
“Uh, uh, little Doc. You’re not goinganywhere. Not without me, that is.”
I swallow down the liquid panic that threatens to rise from the back of my throat. It’s a struggle to keep my breath in check. I can feel the frantic rise and fall of my chest.I force a deep inhale.
“Why are you here, Gary?” I implore.
“To give you my regards, Doc. And to tell you that I still think about you.Allthe time.” He adds in a whisper.He pauses, before asking, “Do you think about me?” He cocks his head again and shifts closer to me. He is taller than I remember, and gaunter looking.
My palm grips my cell phone so hard, my knuckles sting. I repress the impulse to hold down the emergency button and instead gulp down a steeling breath.I can talk my way out of this.
“No, Gary. I don’t think about you,” I manage. “I was honest and accurate in my assessment of your crimes. And I-I’ve moved on.”
The lie hangs heavily in the air between us, a tangible thing. Eastman says nothing for a long moment.
“Mmmm. You know what? I just don’t think that’s true,Dr. Pearson.”
The emphasis he puts on the last two words has me wanting to lurch out of my skin.
“You want to know what I believe? I think that you think about meall of the time. I think that I haunt your nightmares and I fill the empty moments of your day. I think you replay what I did to those poor girls over and over in your head, and you pray to God that I never come looking for you to do those same things to your body. I think I amin your head.”
Any response I might have given sticks in my throat, which has now gone bone dry. I bite my tongue to try and generate enough saliva to swallow. He’s right of course. I forgot just how astute and perceptive he is.
He was a monster, yes, but a brilliant one. I say nothing but shake my head in denial of his words. Things are coming to a head now; I can sense it. I don’t have much time left. And with a wild surge of impulsive bravery, or stupidity, I decide to act.
