I pause, glancing briefly at Brooks. “Lighting it indicates a level of sadism. The killer wanted the wax to drip, to burn his mouth and throat slowly before he died.”

Brooks watches me, his expression unreadable, but I press on, needing to finish this exercise. “This wasn’t impulsive or sloppy. It was methodical, almost ritualistic. The phrase ‘Actions have consequences’ carved into his chest is a message.”

I nearly trip over my words, unable to ignore that the message wasn’t just for Mason. It was for me. This entire gruesome act was for me.

“The killer believes Mason wronged them,” I say. “The offense was severe, indicated by the depth of each letter into the skin. Whoever did this wanted to make sure that Mason understood his behavior wouldn’t go unpunished. That’s why Mason was still alive when the murderer cut into his skin.”

Brooks crosses his arms, his gaze unrelenting. “Go on, Doctor. You sound like you’ve thought about this a lot.”

I ignore his baiting me, keeping my focus on the psychological elements. “This kind of staging is designed to elicit terror and helplessness in the victim. The candle, the carving—all of it is deliberate. They didn’t just want him dead, although that was always the end goal. Whoever did this wanted Mason broken, humiliated, and silenced before death.”

I meet Brooks’s gaze head on, my voice resolute. “So, yes, Detective, this was deeply personal. But knowing how and why it happened doesn’t make me responsible.”

Brooks studies me, the corner of his mouth tightening. “Your insight might be useful, Doctor, but don’t think for a second it clears you. Maybe you’re just good at hiding your work.”

“I didn’t kill him.”

The detective’s lips curl into a bitter smile. “If you’re innocent, then give me a suspect.”

My mind races while I struggle to hold on to the control I’ve worked so hard to maintain throughout this brutal interrogation. “I don’t have a name. All I can give you is the address to the gym. It has cameras. Check them.”

Detective Brooks doesn’t take his eyes off me. The photos lie scattered between us like the broken pieces of a puzzle he’s determined to force down my throat. He taps his fingers against the table, his gaze sharp and calculating.

“You’re a smart woman, Dr. Andrews. You know exactly how to present yourself to avoid suspicion. Most people would crack under this kind of pressure, but not you.” He tilts his head. “You’ve got the training, the experience. You know how to manipulate a situation, don’t you? How to use your responses and body language to appear a certain kind of way?”

His words cut through the air, but I don’t flinch. It’s my job to study people’s reactions and interpret their body language. But he’s right about me. This isn’t the first time I’ve used my education to my advantage.

The corners of his mouth twitch as if he’s holding back. He hates this. Hates that I haven’t broken. But there’s a flicker of respect behind the coldness in his gaze. He recognizes I’m not like other people he’s dealt with.

Like Ghost, this man is one of the few who haven’t underestimated me.

Brooks leans back in his chair, his shoulders slumping. “I’ve seen brilliant minds like yours before. People who think they’re untouchable. Who believe they can outsmart everyone around them because they’re too smart for their own good.”

He pauses, his eyes boring into mine. “But here’s the thing, Dr. Andrews. Brilliant minds? They make mistakes. Eventually, they all do. And when that happens, I’ll be right there.”

I raise my chin. “I know my rights. Either you arrest me and I demand legal representation, or I’m leaving.”

There’s a moment of silence, thick with unspoken accusations. Then Brooks smirks, a frustrated, tight-lipped expression as he slowly rises from his seat. “You’re free to go, but don’t make any travel plans.”

He steps aside, opening the door with a deliberate slowness to display power. “Don’t think for a second this is over. I’ll be watching you, Dr. Andrews. I always catch my killers.”

“Good luck with that.” Because he’s already in prison.

I gather my things, standing as calmly as I can, even though my heart is pounding in my chest and my legs are trembling. Without another word, I walk out of the room, leaving behind the cold interrogation room and the photos of Mason’s broken body.

CHAPTER 22

“Ghost, you have a visitor.”

I turn my head to stare at the guard standing in front of my cell. “If it’s not Dr. Andrews, they can go fuck themselves.”

The day I arrived marked the beginning of a steady stream of letters. They’re mostly written by women who claim to love me, who profess to understand the shadows I live in. The twisted attraction to the forbidden, the thrill of being tied to someone who’s done the unimaginable. They romanticize it, obsess over it, draping themselves in fantasies of being the one to redeem me.

It’s textbook hybristophilia. See? Dr. Andrews isn’t the only one who knows fancy words.

These people send photos—cheap lingerie, smeared lipstick, eyes full of lust and desperation. They offer me their bodies, their minds, sometimes even their souls, hoping for a sliver of attention, some acknowledgment from the man they think they understand. But they don’t.

Except Geneva.

She doesn’t delude herself with stupid fantasies. She doesn’t dress up my madness in the robes of some misunderstood, broken hero. She knows what I am, and she’s afraid.

But she keeps coming back.

And that’s the difference. Her fear isn’t born from ignorance or naivety. She knows the fire she’s playing with, and yet, she confronts me, close enough to feel the heat.

Because she is made of fire as well.

The guard says, “It’s her.”

“Yay!”

I stand and roll my shoulders for a quick stretch before I let him cuff me without resistance. The cold metal snaps around my wrists and I sigh. The things I put up with for Geneva’s sake.

I grab the material of my pants and curtsy. “How do I look?”

“Shut up, Ghost.”

My laughter follows us as he leads me into the hall and we begin the slow walk down the corridor. The air smells of sweat, musk, and pent-up aggression. I glance at the inmates we pass by, some slumped against the wall, others sleeping. I take note of each face, searching for something useful. They’re all disposable, most of them too broken to serve any real purpose.

But then I spot someone who fits the bill. A lanky, wide-eyed inmate in one of the far cells is pacing methodically, his fingers twitching as he walks. He has the look of someone deep in his own head, trapped in obsessive thought.

What are you thinking about, Junior?

He’s not one of the usual thugs. No, there’s an air of neuroticism about him which makes him perfect for what I have in mind.

We keep walking, the guard’s footsteps echoing down the corridor. He’s quiet, avoiding eye contact, probably trying to keep his pulse steady. I enjoy it. These men, the ones with the keys and the power, know exactly who they’re dealing with.

Finally, we arrive at the interview room. He unlocks the door, pushing it open with a tiny creak. I step inside, and my eyes adjust to the lighting in the familiar setting.

“Finally some freedom,” I murmur under my breath, sitting down and casually crossing my legs. “Now be a good boy and turn off the cameras. It’s part of my arrangement with the doctor. Don’t make me repeat myself.”

The guard stiffens, his face paling as he swallows down whatever objections he had. He nods once and steps out of the room, presumably heading to shut down the cameras.