“It’s crucial, Mr. Doe, that you fully understand these rights, given the severity of the charges you face. What is your plea?”

Every pair of eyes shoot to Ghost as he tilts his head, causing his pale disheveled hair to graze his shoulder. “Guilty, your Honorship.”

The simplicity of the word “guilty” discredits the complexity of its implications. Which isn’t lost on anyone present. As a collective, we stare at this enigmatic man. What reason, other than to plead guilty, would he have to turn himself in? Yet it’s still a shock to hear him accept the charges and the loss of freedom that comes with it.

Judge Pritchett nods, his expression grave. “Mr. Doe, do you understand that by entering this plea, you waive your rights to a trial and to challenge the evidence against you?”

“I don’t want a trial.” Ghost shifts in his seat, removing one leg from the table. “That’d be a waste of my time. As far as evidence against me? I’ve provided everything you need. But if that’s not enough, then—”

With a swift movement that’s no more than a blur, Ghost swings his leg to slam his foot against Deputy Wilson’s shin. The guard stumbles before slamming onto the tabletop, his upper body draped across the surface. As the deputies retrieve their firearms, Ghost slings his other leg over Wilson’s neck, locking his ankles together.

The four deputies cock their weapons and aim them directly at Ghost’s head, their stances rigid and their gazes wary but determined. I brace myself for the blast of gunfire, but it doesn’t come. Not when there are innocent bystanders in the line of fire, located directly behind Ghost.

“Let him go!” one of the deputies shouts.

Wilson gasps and claws at Ghost’s legs, unsuccessful in prying them away. The deputy to the left of Ghost, whose name badge reads “Tanner,” presses the end of his pistol to Ghost’s temple. “I said, let him go.” This time the order is given without hesitation.

No one underestimates Ghost and his threats now.

He simply laughs in response. It’s a bone-chilling, blood-curdling sound that frightens me more than the violence I’m witnessing. The noise echoes off the walls, the sinister notes filling the atmosphere like a poisonous gas.

This is a man who has nothing to lose… or he’s already lost everything.

I sit there, eyes wide, my insides shriveling in horror. Wilson still tugs and scratches at the criminal’s legs, his movements growing more frantic with each second that passes as he continues to struggle for air.

Ghost tightens his hold on his captive and turns to press his forehead against the muzzle of the gun, staring up at the deputy. From the set of his jaw and his focused gaze, Ghost isn’t merely demonstrating dominance.

He’s making a statement.

Ghost lifts his hands as much as the handcuffs allow, rattling the chain-links. “Look, ma, no hands.”

He jerks in his seat and a sickening crack follows.

After that is silence, heavy with a chilling reality. Wilson’s body goes limp on the table, his hands falling away from Ghost’s legs.

The deputies freeze, their fingers tight on the triggers but none daring to make a move that could turn this standoff into a bloodbath. Ghost flicks his gaze around the room, taking in the faces of his audience, his expression unreadable. Except for that damn smirk on his lips. Then, very slowly, he unravels his legs and allows Wilson’s now lifeless body to slide off the table onto the floor with a dull thud.

The sound of the body hitting the floor reverberates through the room, and then chaos erupts. Half of the crowd screams hysterically, people already clamoring to leave. I grip my notebook tighter to stop my hands from shaking.

Tanner yells an order to seize Ghost, and the men rush forward all at once. But Ghost is already surrendering. The sinister echo of his deranged laugh fills the air, a haunting reminder of the darkness that resides in the human psyche.

I was wrong about my earlier conclusion. This was not just an act of defiance. It was a message that Ghost cannot and will not be controlled.

CHAPTER 3

“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?”