Page 89 of The Psychopaths

What is he doing to her right now? What has he already done?

The thought drives me to the corner of my cell where the concrete meets metal framing. To the small section of wall I’ve been working on for weeks.

I glance at the security camera in the corner. It’s still on its timed sweep, just like every night. Thirty seconds facing my bunk, thirty seconds facing the toilet, thirty seconds facing the door. Which leaves a minute and thirty seconds where this corner isn’t invisible.

One, two, three...

The camera begins its rotation. I count silently, waiting for it to turn away from my bunk. When it does, I drop to my knees and begin prying at the loosened section of baseboard.

Behind it is a small cavity I’ve created by painstakingly scraping away concrete with a spoon stolen from a meal tray weeks ago. Arson never noticed—too busy with his grand revenge to count utensils. Too confident in his security system to imagine I’d try something so primitive.

The camera continues its rotation. I flatten myself against the wall, appearing to simply lean there in thought until it pans toward the door. Then I’m moving again, retrieving the spoon from its hiding place inside my thin mattress.

Back to the corner, digging frantically now. The concrete dust coats my fingers, gets under my nails, mixes with sweat to form a gritty paste. I don’t care. All that matters is getting deeper, reaching the wiring I know must run behind this section of wall.

Old wiring I noticed in the hall ceiling means vulnerabilities. Vulnerabilities I can exploit.

The camera completes another rotation. I press against the wall again, breathing hard, planning my next move. Thirty more seconds, then back to work.

I have to get out. Have to save her from him.

From herself.

The spoon’s handle snapped days ago, leaving me with just the bowl—a crude scraper that tears at my fingertips as I work. Each rotation of the camera allows another frenzied thirty seconds of digging. My fingernails split, the nailbeds turning bloody, but I barely notice.

All I see is Arson’s hands on her. His mouth at her ear. The look in her eyes—confused, afraid, but worst of all, interested.

“Come on,” I mutter, gouging deeper into the crumbling concrete. “Give me something.”

The cheap institutional construction is my only advantage. This building wasn’t made to hold someone determined to escape. It was made to store pharmaceuticals, not prisoners.

My knuckles scrape raw against the rough surface. I switch hands, using my left while my right throbs with dull pain. No time for caution now. No time for the careful approach that’s gotten me nowhere for weeks.

During the next camera sweep, I press my ear to the hole, listening for the telltale hum of electrical current. Nothing yet. Need to go deeper.

I work methodically through several more rotations, timing my movements to the camera’s predictable pattern. The hole is nearly forearm-deep now, my shoulders aching from the awkward angle.

Then—resistance. Something different from concrete. Something metallic.

My pulse quickens as I carefully scrape around the obstruction, revealing a metal conduit pipe. Exactly what I’ve been searching for. The main artery of Arson’s security system, running through the walls to connect cameras, alarms, and door locks.

The next thirty seconds pass with excruciating slowness as I wait for the camera to turn away again. When it does, I plunge my hand into the hole, fingers wrapping around the cool metal pipe. A twist—not too hard, don’t want to break it completely—and I feel it give slightly.

One more rotation. One more thirty-second window of opportunity.

This time when I reach in, I apply steady pressure, feeling the aged metal conduit bend under my grip. A crack appears, then widens as I work my fingers into it. Inside, a bundle of colorful wires—red, blue, green, yellow—the vital nervous system of my prison.

I suppress a triumphant laugh, instead memorizing the wire configuration before the camera swings back. Arson may know security systems, but I know electrical engineering—one of the many subjects Father insisted I master.

One of those wires connects to the fire suppression system. Another to the alarm. Find the right combination, create a short-circuit, and chaos follows.

Chaos I can use.

As the camera pans back toward my corner, I lean casually against the wall, heart racing but expression neutral. Just a man contemplating his captivity.

Not a man about to burn it all down.

The next rotation feels eternal. I rehearse the wire layout in my mind—blue and red for power, yellow for data transmission, green for ground. Standard commercial configuration. The system likely runs on a twenty-four-volt circuit—enough to hurt like hell but probably not lethal.

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