“You’re very intelligent, Blakely,” I tell her, adjusting my glasses as they slip down the bridge of my nose. “That’s why you’re so perfect, and also why I had to subdue you in the manner that I did. You’re so aware of your environment, always alert and on guard. Taking you by surprise was never going to be easy. So, I set the stage for you to expect an attack, to be ready for it, so when that one opportunity presented where your guard slipped, just for a second…” I snap my fingers to demonstrate.

The corner of her mouth kicks up into a smirk. “You sound proud of yourself. How very courageous of you to attack a girl.”

I lift the clipboard strung to the back of the gurney. “Let’s drop all the predictable banter. We both know you’re not just a girl.” I walk toward her and touch the inside of her wrist. She doesn’t flinch away, and I smile. “Steady pulse. Nice and slow.” I make a note on the page, then lift my eyes to hers. “You’re a psychopath.”

Her gaze narrows, her chest rises and falls with measured breaths. Her mind is puzzling out the situation. It’s fascinating to watch. What conclusion will she draw?

“Is this some revenge against me?” she asks. “Who hired you?”

I tsk as I pull the swivel stool around and take a seat. “I expected more from you, but I suppose we need to get the obvious questions and assumptions out of the way. No one hired me,” I state. “Though I’m sure there are plenty of vilified ex-husbands who would pay to see you suffer painfully, that’s not why you’re here.”

She tosses her head to clear away the strands of blond that have fallen over her eyes. A sudden yearning to reach out and brush her hair aside grips me. I clench my hand into a fist around the pen, then make a note about my impulse on the clipboard.

Everything must be documented, even my reactions to her. I’m part of the parameters of the experiment. I’m a variable. Plus, I’m human and have human urges; this is normal. I simply need to make sure I’m aware of those urges at all times, as she will try to use them to manipulate me.

“Then why are you doing this to me?”

“As cliché as this sounds—and I apologize—it’s not personal. My twin sister was a victim of a serial killer. A psychopath. Dr. Mary Jenkins was a renowned neurologist at Hopkins. Then the deranged Angel of Maine set his sights on her.” I pause for dramatic effect. “He lobotomized her. To death.”

Grayson Sullivan was never convicted or even charged with her murder, but the authorities knew he was responsible. The murder was perpetrated with his MO. Sullivan escaped custody before charges could be brought against him.

“I don’t believe you,” she says. “I would’ve found something that extreme online. I searched you thoroughly.”

“I have fail-safes in place. I’m notified every time an article or mention about my sister is posted. I either take it down, or a program I coded directs it to another site and renames the link. I can’t have my subjects stumbling upon this information and making any kind of connection. That would be sloppy.”

Her dark eyebrows draw together. “Subjects,” she repeats.

Out of all that was said, this is the grain she picks out. With a sigh, I situate my glasses. “Yes, you’re now my subject.” I stand and push the stool back. “Well, technically, you’ve been my subject since that first night at the club. Once I identified you as a psychopath, I started analyzing and collecting the necessary information in order to get you to this stage.”

A long pause where she considers my answer, then: “People will notice I’m missing. They’ll look for me.”

She must have learned this tactic from a movie. It’s completely unimaginative. I’m disappointed with our first real interaction. Where is the fiend? Where is the vile, unfeeling creature that I know her to be?

“No one will look for you, Blakely. I know who the people closest to you are. I researched your parents. I looked into Rochelle, one of your main clients. As you’ve built a sheltered life to keep people out, there’s no one who will miss your company. On that point, you’ve done the work for me.”

She doesn’t deny my claim and, unlike the average person in a similar scenario, being told they’re all alone in the world has no real impact on her.

“How long?” she demands.

I inhale deeply. “However long it takes.”

Her features contort, and she shakes her head against the bed. “What is it? However long what takes, Alex?”

I lift my chin. “The cure.”

Confusion settles in the hard creases of her forehead. She still hasn’t made the connection.

“Alex, I’m sorry for what happened to your sister, but whatever you have planned, there has to be someone better, more interesting than me for your purpose.”

“Let’s not insult each other with mind games and tactics. I know how good you are at reading people and influencing them. That won’t happen here. I’ll answer any question you have, but please don’t tire yourself or me with pointless arguments.”

The soft expression masking her face dissolves. “You abducted me. Chained me to a fucking gurney”—she snaps her wrists against the restraints—“and you’re actually using the word please? Like this is some social experiment for your fucking lab geeks and I’m a willing participant? Have you lost your fucking mind?”

“I will be civil with you,” I say, my tone level. “I only require you to be the same.”

Her features harden. “I’m going to tear your face off.”

There she is, the monster beneath the façade. “I’m sure you would,” I say, as I walk toward the curtain. “But you won’t be given the chance.”

And to think, just hours earlier I was doubting myself. Questioning my commitment to the project, my choice in selecting Blakely. That one moment between us at my apartment, right before we left, I was on the verge of abandoning it all.

There had been opportunities prior to that where I could have subdued her. We didn’t need to go through the whole farce of the Ericson revenge job. But I had doubts, I had reservations, and I wasn’t sure until that final moment that she was the right choice.

“You know,” I say, as I collect the syringe and glass vial of general anesthetic from the metal tray, “there was a second where I was second-guessing my decision about you. A moment of hesitancy, a bout of conscience, if you will.”

“So what changed your mind? My charming personality?”

A flat smile lines my face. “No matter how focused one is on their goal, the human condition dictates that we should wrestle with the choice to cause another human being harm.” I draw closer to her, so that we’re staring into each other’s eyes. “And then you admitted that you didn’t care what happen to the sex worker, that she was collateral damage. Expendable was the word you used.”

I use the needle tip to touch the tender part of her hand, and she jerks away. “In that moment, I knew I didn’t have a choice,” I continue, meeting her eyes again. “You are the perfect subject.”

“Everyone has a choice,” she says, jaw set tight.

“That may be so, but you also had a choice to protect her.” I insert the needle into the vial and fill the syringe. “Instead, true to your nature, you found her expendable. A means to your end. Her life was of no consequence.”

“And yet, did you stick around to help Maybelline, Alex?”

My shoulders tense. “I never entered the penthouse. I used a recorded track from the MMA fight. I removed the background noise and played it for you while you waited to be lured to the park.”

Her lips twist into a smirk. “That’s not what I asked.”

A morsel of shame settles in the pit of my stomach. “Whereas you were negligent with her life in pursuit of money, my aim is for the greater good—”

“Sure. I get the point.” She looks at the needle. Her concern is on herself again.

Holding the syringe aloft, I wait, reveling in the knowledge that soon Blakely will know exactly what it is to feel shame. An emotion I have battled with every failed experiment. How much will that change her?