He moves toward me with the mouthguard, and despite knowing it’s useless to fight, to try to escape, as I always tell my subjects, my base survival instinct kicks in and I struggle against the restraints.

“Wait—” I say, trying to stall him. “If you kill me, then you can never recreate the treatment for yourself.”

He stands over me. Something like amusement flashes behind his eyes. “I think you missed a glaringly obvious flaw in your treatment plan, doctor.”

I swallow to moisten my dry throat. “What’s that?”

“The catch twenty-two.” He bears down on my wounded hand, and I groan out in pain. He shoves the guard into my mouth and seals a strip of duct tape over it. “For a psychopath to be cured, they first have to want the treatment. However, without the emotional capacity to care, there is no desire to be cured. A conundrum that renders your procedure impractical and useless.”

Grayson stares down at me as he places the rods to my temples. I sink my teeth into the guard. He never looks away as he reaches over and turns on the juice, not gauging the voltage before electricity courses my body.

The induced seizure cords every muscle tight. My body planks against the gurney. My vision blurs, the tremors rattling my optic nerves. An overwhelming urge to vomit burns my esophagus, but I choke it back so I don’t asphyxiate.

The session may only last a few seconds, but time is my enemy in this moment, and the seconds drag out as pain afflicts every cell in my body.

By the time Grayson kills the switch, I’m tunneling under.

A violent slap to my cheek rouses me back to consciousness. The tape is torn away, and the mouthguard falls to the gurney from my slack mouth.

“If your subjects can withstand a harder dose,” Grayson says, “then surely the scientist can take a few small jolts.”

I can’t process a thought through the cloud of confusion. The acrid scent of seared flesh burns my nostrils. The memory of Blakely shooting me with a Taser rises to the surface of my thoughts, and I think I smile.

“Water,” I manage to croak.

Silence answers back. After a few agonizing minutes where I fade in and out of awareness, I’m doused with a splash of tepid water over my face.

I lick my lips, ignoring the burning sensation at my temples. As more of the fog lifts, I test the leather cuff around my right wrist. The seizure loosened it a fraction.

“So this is…what,” I say, hoping to keep him talking long enough to wriggle my arm free. “Punishment? The Angel of Maine is here to judge me, to turn my crimes against me?” A laugh escapes, sounding faraway in my ringing ears. This is what he does—makes his victims question themselves. Throws their sins in their face, forcing them to stare into their own black souls. “You can’t make a man suffer for actions he doesn’t regret.”

I see Grayson approach from the corner of my eye. He rolls my lab chair close to the gurney and sits. I can feel his stare on the side of my face.

“I dislike that moniker,” he says, a warning in his tone. “I’m not here to punish you, Chambers. You’re doing that all by yourself, pining after a woman who loathes you.” He releases a sardonic breath. “I’ve been watching your pathetic life for three days now, and I feel like I’m doing you a favor by putting you out of your misery.”

The mention of Blakely flares my fried nerves. “Don’t even think about her.”

He tsks. “You should never reveal your weakness so easily.”

I yank at the restraints, and the right cuff slackens even more. He didn’t tighten it down enough.

“But no, I’m not here to punish you,” he says. “I’m not that magnanimous. I don’t give a shit about how many people you’ve killed or who your victims were. I’m here to stop you from making a bigger mess than you already have.”

He flips through one of my journals and turns the page around so I can see. “It took me all of half a day to track you down. Serial killing one-oh-one: never work off of a list.”

The page he’s displaying is the list of names from Blakely’s little black book.

“If the very savvy detective working these cases links you to these murders, then he can link me.” He closes the journal. “Seeing as Dr. Mary Jenkins was your sister, one of my victims, it’s not a huge leap from one killer to the next. From you to me.” His gaze darkens. “You can understand why I can’t let that happen. I have more than myself to protect.” He stands to loom over me, and I notice the syringe in his hand. The barrel is filled with my compound. I can tell by the color and consistency.

“While you were knocked out, I read through your notes. Interesting project, curing psychopaths. All because of me. I’m flattered.” He sticks the needle in my arm, thumb poised over the plunger. “I wonder if we can reverse the process, fry your neural pathways until you’re just like me.”

Breath measured, I stare at the syringe. “You’re smart enough to know it doesn’t work like that.”

His mouth tips into a disturbing smile. “That’s disappointing. I guess we can just pump this poison in your veins and watch you swallow your tongue, instead.”

My reflexes are dull, but with strength I barely feel, I pry my wrist free of the cuff and reach under the gurney. I always have a contingency plan. In the event a subject gets loose, I keep a scalpel taped beneath the bed. I never thought I’d have to use it—but I never thought I’d be at the mercy of a deranged killer, either.

In a thwarted heartbeat, I have the razor-sharp blade held to Grayson’s neck.

Within the same beat, I feel the distinct tip of cold steel at my throat. I expel a shaky breath as Grayson holds a scalpel to my neck.

Locked in mirrored positions, we stare at one another. Waiting. Weapons gripped tight.

The water beads on my skin to mix with sweat, and a tremor rolls through my arm. I’m still too weak from the electroshock, but I won’t let him know this. “I should sever your carotid for what you did to my sister.”

Grayson merely looks intrigued. “You could, or you could thank me. She wouldn’t be in your life without me, otherwise.”

She referring to the only woman in my life that means anything now. “Said like a true psychopathic narcissist.”

I try not to let him inside my head, try to shut out his invasive voice, but his claim ignites my chest. I clench the scalpel in a tense fist, muscles strained.

“You had no other reason for taking my twin sister from this world,” I say, “from taking her from me, then your own selfish, twisted compulsions.”

“And I bet that just tears the wound wide open.”

“Give me a reason,” I demand.

Reason at least provides logic. Something I can assess, measure, comprehend.

Without reason, we’re no better than animals. Beasts that tear each other apart for flesh and blood.

He narrows his eyes curiously. “Dr. Jenkins was a parasite,” he says, his voice devoid of any emotion, as if he’s simply stating a fact. “Her ego destroyed her long before I put an icepick through her skull. But that’s not why you’re here, stalking a woman you tortured. Your lust for revenge died the moment she flew into your orbit. So put your pathetic attempt to inflate your ego away. It’s weak.”

Blood roars in my ears. Every charged cell in my body wants to destroy him.

And yet, despite my indignant response to his assertion, I’m furious that he’s right. My project stopped being about trying to avenge my sister and restore her name, and became all about my obsession with Blakely.

With forced conviction, I ease the blade of the scalpel away from his neck. A hairline bead of red remains on his skin. The overworked muscles of my forearm seize, and I drop the scalpel. It clatters loudly as it hits the floor between us.

“You at least owe me a quick death,” I say.

Amusement lights his features. “A martyr killer,” he says, lowering his own weapon. “I believe that’s an oxymoron.”