Page 4 of Beautiful Prey

“I get what you mean. That this might be a waste of time.”

The doctor shrugged. “To put in less professional words, yes. As long as you understand that.”

“I do.” And I was confident I’d get him to talk. Or at least get a reaction out of him before the end of the night.

The doctor assessed me for a moment, then nodded as if satisfied. “You can stop the session at any time, obviously. All I ask is that, whatever you do get out of him, you make a copy of your report and send it to me for our own records. Deal?”

“No problem,” I said. “Thank you again for this.”

“Don’t thank me yet. If anything, I hope you don’t regret it and get the insight needed. I know you’ve been taught what to expect. If I were you, though, I’d let that all go now.”

I waited beside John in the hallway as the other guards sauntered out of the room, some sweating either from the strain of moving him or from being so tense at the possibility of what he might do. A few eyed me and shook their heads as they passed.

They moved away some distance from the door, and I took that as a sign I could enter. I took a step toward the room when John caught my arm.

“Seriously, if he gives you any shit, you tell us right away, okay? We will be outside the door,” he said gently, before letting me go.

I smiled and nodded. Clutching my bag tight, I forced myself forward.

The room was bigger than I expected. And old. The ceiling curved upward slightly, a mosaic of colors fading away where parts of the surface were peeling. I knew the building had once served as both an orphanage and an institute, and that during renovations to accommodate more dangerous subjects, some of the old rooms had been kept intact. On the opposite wall were two large windows, both gated, with tables and chairs stacked along the other sides. Here, I theorized they would usually have group sessions.

As I walked in further, my eyes drew over to the two chairs in the center, one empty and the other with Emery—a giant with his back to me, his hands and feet chained to the chair. His head was bent forward, but he didn’t move. The lights were a dim yellow, casting shadows along the ceiling and walls. A strange place to have an interview, but I wasn’t about to turn around and complain.

This was really happening. I’d finally speak to the man who slaughtered my family. All the rage and sadness I had over the years were now overshadowed by fear. But like hell I was going to turn away now.

He was chained, caged. He couldn’t hurt me anymore.

Confidently, I strolled over to my chair with a purpose, letting my heels click sharply against the marble floor. Before I sat, I whirled around to face him and smiled.

“Hello, Emery.” My voice nearly cracked when I got a good look at him.

Hollow eyes, honey colored. No, they were yellow. Eyes without a face.

That night slammed into me like a freight train. As ridiculous and insane as it was, he still wore the mask. A red skull face.

How the hell was he able to keep the guards from forcing it off him? From taking it away and stashing it for evidence or burning it? How?

Disappointment mixed with an awful twisting in my stomach forced me down to the seat facing him. I kept my smile tight, hoping he hadn’t seen my small lapse in composure. “I’m Eve Layne.” My voice almost cracked again, and I cursed myself a dozen times.Don’t lose it fucking now, Eve.“How are you tonight?”

He didn’t say a word, not that I expected him to. He did move, however, only slightly, his back straightening and his hands resting on his lap, turning to fists.

I observed the rest of him as casually as I could while I took out my recorder and notepad from my bag. He had on a black inmate uniform with two white stripes across both arms just above the elbow. His sleeves had been rolled up to cuff him, revealing large forearms. His hair—a dark brown with a tinge of deep red—curled around his ears and back of neck, a few wavy locks falling across the mask. He was a big guy, bigger than John, bigger than I remember him on my sixteenth birthday.

“May I?” I asked, showing him my recorder.

He didn’t respond, so I clicked it on and set it on the ground. I took my notepad in my lap and pen in hand, gripping it tighter than I meant to. I finally forced myself to really look at him and tensed when I saw him staring at me. His eyes cut into me like a knife.

I straightened and tried to keep my smile friendly if small. “I heard you’re shy so it’s okay if you don’t want to talk.” I waited to see if he’d say anything, and when he didn’t, I continued, “I’m from the Psychology and Forensics department at Michigan State. I’m a student there, studying—”

“Me.”

My heart leaped into my throat. His voice was low, husky even, a hushed sound that still caught my attention. No, demanded it.

“That’s right,” I said. “You…and others like you.”

He tilted his head as if he found that weirdly fascinating.

His gaze unnerved me, and I shifted in my seat. “I know this is sudden. You don’t usually talk to anyone at this hour. I’m sure they didn’t warn you about me coming.”

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