Текст книги "Depraved devotion"
Автор книги: Morgan Bridges
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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 19 страниц)
CHAPTER 3
GHOST
“What’s a man got to do to go to prison already?”I ask.
“Shut up, Doe.”
“Just ignore him.”
I grin at the guards flanking me as I sit on the medical exam table, one man then the other. Deputies Johnson and Garcia. From the way their gazes dart to and fro, they’re more alert than the guys in the courtroom. Or they were told about Wilson’s death, and that’s why I have shackles on my ankles and they’re watching me like I’m a bomb ready to explode.
Boom, motherfuckers.
“This med ward is boring,” I say. “Blood pressure, blood sample, etcetera… etcetera… You’d think I’d be thrown in a cell by now. Killing with style is mentally exhausting, you know? I really need some ‘me time.’”
Deputy Johnson stiffens beside me, but his gaze loses none of its focus. Deputy Garcia turns to look at me with a veil of hatred covering his features, and my smile widens. I swing my legs and wiggle on the parchment like a toddler, rattling the chains and wrinkling the paper underneath me.
“Doe, you—”
“Call me, ‘Ghost,’” I interject. “The moniker is more accurate. Plus, it gets the ladies going.”
When I waggle my brows at Deputy Johnson, his lips thin. “You won’t be able to pull a disappearing act now, Ghost. After this assessment, we’re throwing your ass in a hole so deep you’ll never see daylight, or civilization again.”
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 gain some 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
c
e
s.
CHAPTER 4
GENEVA
It’s Friday, but when you’re married to your work, every day is the same. I guess my life is a compilation of Mondays then.
I sit at my desk, the hum of the activity outside my office completely muted by my noise-canceling headphones. With my back facing the wall, I’ll be sure to notice if anyone opens my door. Although, everyone knows better than to interrupt me when I have my headphones on, unless it’s urgent.
My notes from this morning are displayed on my computer screen, along with the stark images of the victim and the crime scene. Just like every other time, the details etch themselves on my memory. They’ll stay there until the case is solved.
If the case is solved.
“Case #1025-0731, Crime Scene Analysis. Location: 1207 Maple Street. Victim: Julia Mills, mid-thirties, found deceased in her residence. Time of death is estimated between 11:00 p.m. and 1:00 a.m.”
I type steadily, describing the scene thoroughly, noting the position of the body, the state of the room, and the lack of forced entry. The blood spatter is only in the living room, while the rest of the house remains untouched by the violent struggle.
“You put up a fight, Julia,” I whisper to the victim. I stop to briefly run my fingertips over her gruesome image. “We’ll catch this son of a bitch.”
I move onto the profile development. The methodical arrangement of the scene suggests an organized offender, someone who plans and executes with precision. There’s a ritualistic element to the positioning of the body, indicating a possible psychological compulsion.
“The suspect has a meticulous nature and possibly a background in forensic knowledge,” I mutter to myself. “The lack of forced entry suggests the victim may have known the perp or was deceived into allowing them in.”
I lose track of time as I continue adding to the report until I save the file and send it to the lead detective. A knock sounds the moment I remove my headphones.
“Come in,” I call out, looking up from my desk.
The door swings open and Detective Allen Harris steps inside. His graying hair is cropped short, and a perpetual five o’clock shadow frames his square jaw. He smiles at me, then pauses, glancing around my office with a raised brow.
“You know, Gen, your office always feels like a morgue. There’s no color in this room.”
The walls are pristine white and every piece of furniture, down to the wall clock, is black. The starkness of the decor is only softened by the natural light coming in through the windows. The flooring is a polished concrete, the gray surface adding to the minimalist aesthetic. To me, my office is a haven of efficiency.
Inwardly, I sigh. “I find it easier to focus without distractions.”
“Fair enough. But a plant wouldn’t hurt.”
I smile at him and gesture to the empty chair in front of my desk. “What can I do for you, Detective?”
He takes the proffered seat, his expression turning serious. “I saw your report hit my inbox. I’m sure it’ll be just as good as the others.”
“Thank you.” I scan his face, noting the way he’s clenching his jaw and the tension lining his mouth. How tightly he’s clutching a folder in his right hand. “Is there something else you wanted to discuss with me, Allen?”
My use of his first name is a subtle tactic to put him at ease. It’s a reminder that we’re more than co-workers. We’re colleagues, fighting on the side of justice.
Allen scrubs the back of his neck before his posture loses some of its stress. But only infinitesimally. Damn. I brace myself when he opens his mouth.
“Ghost refuses to speak to any of the professionals. We’re talking about days of silence. For fuck’s sake, we don’t even have a psych profile on him yet.”
“Where is he locked up?”
“Blackwater Correctional Facility,” he says. “Usually that place knows how to handle people like him.”
“Except he’s not like anyone else.”
My pulse kicks up a notch, just like every other time I’ve thought about Ghost. I assumed I’d get over my curiosity concerning him by burying myself in work and focusing on other criminals, but that’s not been the case.
Like a ghost, he haunts me.
Allen sighs. “Before he stopped speaking, Ghost said he has information on the Riverton case.”
My mouth drops open. I quickly snap my jaw closed with a succinct click. “Anna Lee, the eight-year-old who disappeared two days ago? But how would Ghost know anything about her? He was in prison before she was reported missing.”
“I don’t know. It could be a sick joke to mess with us, or…”
I thrum my fingers on my desktop. “Or he could have pertinent information.”
“You know the first forty-eight hours are crucial. The chances of finding her alive decrease the longer she remains missing. We’re past that.”
“Damn it.” I halt my fingers and tilt my head. “Why are you telling me this? Is it because I dabbled with the idea of writing an article about Ghost for peer review? If so, I’m not doing that anymore. After I saw him murder that man in court, I won’t have anything to do with him.”
“That’s too bad because Ghost wants something from you. He’s asked for you… by name.”
“What?!”
My raised voice has Allen blinking at my uncharacteristic reaction. I clear my throat to regain my stoic composure, the one that keeps my emotions locked away where they’re safe and can’t hurt me. Or anyone else.
“I’m sorry,” I say, gentling my voice. “You surprised me.”
“Right back at you. Anyway, like I just said, Ghost refuses to speak to anyone but you.”
Why me?
Dread coats my insides like molasses. Yet there’s an unwanted spark lit inside me as well, one that I can’t ignore. Despite witnessing Ghost kill someone, I remain captivated by him. His sense of twisted humor pairs with his devious actions to create a macabre allure that’s hard for me to shake.
“How does he even know who I am?”
“I honestly have no idea, Gen. What I do know is you’re the best in your field.”
I wave a hand in dismissal. “It’s easy to be successful when you don’t have a life. But I can’t do it.” I shake my head for emphasis.
“You’re our only in, and we’re out of options.”
“After the case involving Sarah, I don’t want to work directly with criminals again. Especially someone as unhinged as Ghost. I can help catch the bad guys from behind the scenes.”
If I’m around Ghost, then my fascination will only deepen. Which means he could do more than haunt me. He could possess me.
Allen nods in understanding. “Sometimes the only way to catch a criminal is to find them in the shadows where they dwell. If Ghost can lead us to her kidnapper, we might have a chance to find Anna Lee alive.”
The truth of his words hits me like a fist to the chest. I suck in a breath, my nostrils flaring. I can still see Ghost’s white hair hanging over his brow along with his cruel smile. However, I also recall Anna Lee’s missing poster, her eyes full of innocence and joy.
Fisting my hands, I meet Allen’s gaze. “When do I visit him?”
“Tomorrow.”
Shit.
“Why?” I mutter to myself.
It’s the question that I’ve asked myself for years. Sometimes I find answers, but mostly I’m left with more questions and less clarity than before. Does that stop me from continuing to seek answers, to find closure buried deep in the minds of deviant criminals? No, I’ll never stop trying to understand them.
My sanity depends on it.
The cab driver grabs my attention by clearing his throat. “Because you hailed me down, miss.”
“I’m sorry. I’m talking to myself. Just ignore me.”
“Whatever you say, miss.”
The middle-aged man shifts his gaze from me to the road and turns up the radio a notch. I look down at the open folder resting on my lap before flipping through the scant information we have on Ghost. Behavior
Name Preference: Only exhibits a response to being called “Ghost.” Identifies strongly with the alias given by federal authorities, possibly as a form of psychological defense.
Physical Movements: Tests the restraints frequently, indicating discomfort with confinement but also possibly assessing escape potential or demonstrating his apathy.
Reading Dr. Richards’s report is interesting, considering he’s had the longest interaction with Ghost so far. However, I disagree with his conclusion that Ghost is assessing potential escape. He turned himself in.
So the real question is: What does Ghost stand to gain from it? Psychological Indicators
Control and Power: Derives satisfaction from the fear and control he exerts over others. This is a recurring theme in his speech, indicating a potential for antisocial personality disorder with traits associated with psychopathy. Further evaluation to confirm conduct disorder as a juvenile is required for a diagnosis of ASPD, and further tests such as the PCL-R may confirm psychopathic tendencies.
“Ah, fuck me.”
I let my head fall back against the headrest and close my eyes, ignoring the driver’s curious glance. Psychopaths are the hardest to deal with. The lack of human emotion is something I can intellectually comprehend, but even my reserved and strict nature isn’t completely void of feelings.
No matter how much I try to ignore them.
The cab pulls to a stop, jolting me from my work.
“We’re here,” the driver says. “Have a good night, miss.”
“You too.”
I hurriedly shove the folder in my bag and exit the cab. In front of me is a modern high-rise design with a sleek glass façade and metallic accents. It stands prominently against the Manhattan skyline, with balconies for some apartments. Mine is one of them.
Lucky for me, a couple of years ago, my living room was a crime scene I was called in to analyze. I offered the landlord a reduced rate, explaining it’d be hard for him to find a tenant who’d be willing to overlook the homicide that took place there. Since then, I’ve lived in an apartment that I otherwise couldn’t afford without resigning myself to processed noodles for the rest of my life.
As I enter the grand foyer of the building, the familiar luxury envelops me. The floor is a glossy expanse of marble, reflecting the soft glow of the pendant lights above. Art deco pieces line the walls—curated spots of color against the neutral tones of the interior.
The concierge nods at me with a practiced smile, his presence a steady constant. He flicks his gaze and jerks his chin to my left.
I follow the gesture to find the last person I want to see.
CHAPTER 5
GENEVA
Mason leans against one of the marble columns, his figure casual but out of place in the meticulously designed space. At the sight of him, a knot of annoyance tightens in my stomach.
Uninvited and unexpected.
I mask my irritation with a practiced smile, the kind I reserve for suspects who think they’ve outsmarted the system. Or me.
“Gen, hey!” Mason pushes off from the column, his smile wide.
“Hey,” I manage, my voice even. “What are you doing here? Were we supposed to meet, and I forgot?”
“No. I just wanted to surprise you.”
He steps closer with his arms lifted, as if seeking approval for his spontaneous visit. He’s not going to get it from me. Maybe on another night when I’m in need of physical relief my vibrator can’t provide. But I doubt I’ll be able to orgasm because of all the stress due to my impending interview with Ghost.
Although… his piercing eyes and muscular body might do the trick.
“Consider yourself successful,” I reply dryly, moving past Mason and leading the way to the elevators.
We ascend in silence, the digital numbers ticking off the floors too slowly. By the time the elevator dings at my floor, I’ve mentally rehearsed how to cut this visit short.
Stepping into my apartment, my body almost relaxes from simply being back in my own space. The living room, once marked by tragedy, now boasts a tasteful minimalism, large windows casting light across the wooden floors, the city’s pulse a backdrop. It’s welcoming and my version of cozy.
Or it will be when Mason leaves.
Walking over to the side table, I set my bag down with a little more force than necessary. Then I head over to the kitchen to put some space between us and grab a glass of water.
He removes his jacket and tosses it over the back of my couch, as though settling in. I sigh internally, tapping my fingers against the countertop.
I’m of half a mind to fuck him just so he’ll go, but I can’t summon the energy.
“Look, Mason, I’m not in a good headspace right now.” I turn to face him fully. “I have a ton of prep to do for a big interview tomorrow with a fucked-up inmate. It’s really not a good time.”
“Well, shit. I’m sorry to hear that. Are you going to be okay?”
I shrug off his concern, along with my twinge of guilt for being so distant with him. It’s the only way I can do relationships. If you can even call it that.
“I will be. I don’t have a choice,” I say. “He won’t speak to anyone else.”
“That’s weird. Why?”
“Wish I knew.”
Mason comes around the counter, trapping me as he steps close and rests his hand on the curve of my waist. I go rigid at his nearness and immediately scold myself. Physical connection is all I’ve ever asked from this man. I can’t be upset when he seeks me out for that very reason.
“You know, I’m more than happy to rid you of the stress you’re feeling.” After tugging me toward him, he grazes my ear with his lips.
My heart beats faster at his touch. Not with anticipation. With a vague sense of dread.
He presses his body to mine and kisses me, his lips firm. Insistent. It’s a kiss of lust. Of a man wanting a woman.
Except I’m not that woman tonight.
I gently push him away. “I’m not in the mood.”
He frowns at my sudden rejection. “What do you mean?”
“I told you. I just want to relax tonight.”
“Are you fucking serious?”
I cross my arms. “Yeah, I’m fucking serious.”
Mason studies me, his gaze narrowing. Intensifying. I scrutinize him in return, my brain rapidly firing data through my synapses, giving me insight in seconds. The slight furrow of his brow, an almost imperceptible crease, signals anger brewing beneath the surface. Then his eyes darken with intent.
This swift, but significant, change puts me on edge. However, I don’t take a step back as instinct demands. I hold position, my stance challenging.
Mere seconds feel like hours as I wait for him to react.
Mason clears his throat in a deliberate effort to regain composure. A quick shake of his head follows as though he’s attempting to dismiss troubling thoughts or aggressive impulses that have momentarily broken through his usual demeanor. I squint at him when he squares his shoulders and fists his hands at his sides, a clear sign of suppressed aggression.
While never taking my eyes from him, I grab my abandoned glass and take a sip. If need be, I’ll chuck the water in his face to snap him out of whatever emotional state he’s in.
Mason blows out a breath. “You’re such a bitch, you know that?”
I shrug. “Maybe I am, but did you really think you could show up unannounced and try to fuck me? Because that’s just what happened. I told you twice that I’m not having sex tonight, so you don’t have the right to be pissed.”
“I don’t know why I try with you.” He glares at me. “You’re obviously not worth my time.”
“Go home.”
He grabs his jacket and stalks toward the door. I don’t say goodbye. But I also refrain from saying “fuck you.” A win in my book.
A few seconds later he slams the door shut. I roll my eyes and walk over to lock it.
Another “relationship” down the drain.
Not that I put much effort into it. However, I can’t deny it’s a pattern too familiar, too predictable.
I exhale deeply, the tension slowly draining from my shoulders as I retreat into the solitude that has become my fortress.
It’s not just Mason, or the ones before him. It’s a series of emotional barricades that I’ve meticulously constructed over the years. Men come and go, their presence temporary and their impact minimal. I find myself unable to forge anything deeper than superficial attachments, an emotional aloofness that I wear like armor.
Something I’ve both cursed and cherished.
As I pour myself a glass of wine, the bitter truth settles in: My inability to emotionally connect isn’t just a facet of my personality. It’s a scar, a deep-seated residue from the trauma of my childhood. The murder of my parents, a brutal and senseless act, left me orphaned and alone, thrusting me into a world devoid of warmth. That coldness settled deep within me, shaping my interactions, freezing the potential for genuine intimacy.
It also created my need to understand the criminal mind. To understand how someone could rape, torture, and then brutally murder two innocent people.
Living through such horror at a young age, I learned to shut down, to protect myself from the vulnerabilities that open hearts endure. The fear of losing someone else, the potential of another devastating heartbreak, has kept me at arm’s length from anyone who might stir deeper emotions.
Except my best friend.
I grab my phone and my wine glass before settling on the couch. Then I dial Sarah’s number. She answers on the second ring. Thank goodness.
“What did you do?”
I laugh at her greeting. “I threw Mason out.”
“Again?”
“Again.”
She laughs quietly, a mix of exasperation and amusement clear in her voice. “Geneva, what are you going to do? It’s like a revolving door with you two.”
I take a sip of wine, the rich flavor dancing on my tongue as I consider her words. “I don’t know. It’s always the same with him—or anyone, really. I get bored after a while. Then, I push them away.”
“I know you’re the one with a doctorate, but I hate to tell you that’s unhealthy behavior.”
“I know,” I admit in a whisper.
My gaze drifts to the city outside, the myriad lights a stark contrast to the darkness that feels like it’s creeping in around the edges of my mind. Did I project that same darkness on Mason? Wanting to paint him as an overly aggressive person so I could walk away without a backward glance? Sure, he could be an asshole but he’d never shown a possibility of violence.
“Every time I think I might be able to change, I end up right back here.” I sigh. “Alone.”
“You’re not alone, Gen. You have me.”
I smile, grateful for her understanding. “I know you’re here. And I appreciate it more than you can imagine.” I pause, gathering my nerve to give voice to my question. “How’d you do it?”
“What? Move on after being raped?”
I flinch. “Shit. I’m sorry. I just—”
Sarah cuts me off gently. “No, it’s okay. It’s not something I enjoy doing, but it’s good to talk about it sometimes. Especially with you. If you hadn’t gotten on the witness stand, that asshole would still be on the streets.”
“I wish I could’ve done more.”
There’s a moment of silence as she gathers her thoughts.
“It’s not like there’s a formula, Gen,” she starts, her voice steady. “For a long time, I felt like I couldn’t trust anyone, not even myself. But then I realized, staying stuck in that pain wasn’t what I wanted for my life.
“I started therapy,” she continues. “And I mean really committed to it, not just going through the motions. Which I’m sure you can appreciate, given your occupation.” She chuckles briefly, but then her voice turns serious. “It was difficult, probably the hardest thing I’ve ever done. But over time, it helped me understand that what happened wasn’t my fault, that I didn’t have to let it define my entire existence.”
I nod. Though Sarah can’t see it, her words resonate deeply within me, underscoring the profound difference in our paths to healing. While Sarah has bravely confronted her past, striving to liberate herself from its painful shackles, I’ve chained myself tightly to my trauma, driven by an unyielding obsession to unearth the “why” behind the murders of my parents.
This relentless pursuit has not just been a professional endeavor as a criminal psychologist; it has consumed every facet of my life. Each case I take on, every criminal mind I attempt to decipher, is a desperate search for clues that might illuminate my own dark past. My parents’ unsolved murders aren’t just a haunting memory—they’re the lens through which I view the world, the filter that colors every interaction and decision.
“Remember, Gen, it’s okay to take things one step at a time. You’re not alone. You’ve got me, and I’m not going anywhere.”
“Thanks. I’m here for you too. Well, I better go. Are we still good for a girls’ night when you get back from vacation?”
“Absolutely. I’ll talk to you soon, okay?”
“Sounds good. Bye.”
“Bye, honey.”
After ending the call, my thoughts quickly shift to my upcoming interview, igniting a mix of excitement and fear. Ghost is more than just another case. He’s a puzzle wrapped in an enigma. A brilliant mind and a devastatingly beautiful face, drenched in insanity.
Understanding Ghost is the key to outmaneuvering him. So, how am I supposed to do that when there’s not much to go on?
The logical answer: Go straight to the source.
And pray that I return with my mind sane and my soul intact.
