London

“Penicillin.” I look over Grayson’s chart. “Care to explain how Mr. Sullivan was given a medication that his file clearly states he’s allergic to?”

This question is directed to the corrections officer in charge of Grayson’s meals at the courthouse jail. I’ve asked this question of all the officers that have come into contact with him over the past forty-eight hours. I’m no detective and, officially, I’m no longer Grayson’s psychologist, but I demand an answer from someone.

The officer shakes his head. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I don’t know.”

I inhale a sharp breath. “Okay. Thank you.”

I head toward the hallway to slip the chart back into the ER room, and Detective Foster is there to head me off. “You’re not supposed to be here. I’ll take that.” He confiscates the chart.

“I was just leaving.” I attempt to do just that, but the bulky detective again steps into my path.

“Why are you here?”

I cross my arms. “One of my patients has been admitted to the hospital, detective. I’m here doing the same thing you are: trying to figure out how this happened, and more so, to determine how this effects my patient.”

He nods slowly. “You know, the visitor log at the jail only lists one person. You. I find that very interesting.”

“Careful, detective. Someone might think you’re insinuating a respectable doctor poisoned her own patient.”

“I’m not insinuating anything. I’m very bluntly asking you if you gave Sullivan penicillin to delay his transfer.”

“Unbelievable,” I mutter under my breath. “Detective Foster, I take offense that I not only have to do the doctors’ job in this backward hospital, but now yours, too. How many people do you think want to see Grayson dead? Family of the victims, police officials…like yourself—”

“He was already being sentenced to death,” he interrupts.

“He wasn’t being sentenced yesterday,” I counter. “When the trial appeared to be going in his favor.” I raise my eyebrows.

He huffs a breath. “Don’t head back to Maine so quickly, doctor. I may need to question you again.”

I throw my hands up. “You’ve got it. Now, can I please see my patient?”

“Absolutely not. Sullivan is under strict guard. Officials and medical personnel only.”

He escorts me to the waiting room. I find the chair I’ve claimed as mine for the past eight hours. A strained tiredness presses behind my eyes, and I close them for a moment.

It took too long to transfer Grayson to an ambulance. The hospital only being five miles from the courthouse, it shouldn’t have exceeded fifteen minutes to get him into care. Those fifteen minutes cost Grayson his consciousness.

An anxious voice whispers from that dark corner of my mind, mocking me. You wanted this. I did—I wanted Grayson’s death. I wanted the threat eliminated. My perseverance is stronger than my feelings for him.

I blink the dryness from my eyes. I couldn’t will a tear forth if I tried.

Most psychologists are able to diagnose and treat their patients because they care. They have this well of empathy they pull from to give of themselves and help those the world would otherwise shun.

I cannot relate.

I don’t empathize with my patients; I commiserate with them.

Grayson and I share a connection…we’re bound together by some dark force…and yet I know we’re different. I’m better than him. I’m better because I’m stronger and I deserve to be the one to go on and to continue to help people. And for that to happen, he must be the one to fail.

So yes, I wanted his death. But not like this. I wanted the justice system to kill him. I wanted to be justified and free of blame. I hate feeling this hollow pang in my chest, and I want it to stop.

“Dr. Noble.”

My eyes snap open. The ER doctor stands before me. “Yes?”

“Can I have a moment to talk with you?” he asks.

I grab my purse. “Of course, Dr. Roseland.”

Grayson’s medical file still has yet to be transferred. Had the staff wasted time with tests, I’m not sure Grayson would be alive. I threw my lofty title around to make sure Dr. Roseland knew what to test for immediately.

I’m led toward the emergency wing where Grayson is being monitored. “Don’t worry. I’ve gotten you clearance.” The doctor looks my way. “A doctor should be able to see her patient.”

“Thank you.”

“He’s awake,” he says. “I’m sure once I’ve cleared him for questioning, you won’t have another chance to speak with him. He’s been asking to see you since he woke up.”

My brow furrows. “Dr. Roseland, you’re taking a great chance by allowing me access. I don’t think Detective Foster will appreciate your efforts.”

He waves a hand dismissively. “Foster is a hot-head. You just let me worry about him.”

I offer him a smile. Sounds like the ER doctor has regular dealings with the detective. “Well, I appreciate this. Sullivan is a…unique patient.”

He nods. “I noticed that. His brain scans were impressive. It’s a shame that someone with so much potential resorted to… Well, it’s a shame.”

I lower my head as we pass the two officers guarding the hallway. “Do we know how he received the antibiotic?” I ask.

Once we reach the ER room, he pauses at the door and looks at me. “Yes. He administered the drug to himself.”

My heart knocks hard against my chest. The double bah-dah-bump steals the air from my lungs, and I’m able to gain an antiseptic-laced breath before the room door opens.

An officer stands guard outside the door, another inside the room stationed near Grayson. His ankles are cuffed to the gurney. A pair of handcuffs secures his left arm to the bedrail.

He’s awake. And watching me with hazy eyes as I enter.

“How medicated is he?” I ask Dr. Roseland.

The doctor stands in the doorway. “Very,” he says. “A few minutes longer, and Mr. Sullivan may not have made it. The EMT said you performed CPR until they were able to transport him.” He gives me a tight smile. “He has you to thank for his life.”

My eyes close briefly. The hollow pang burrows deeper.

“I’ll give you a moment,” the doctors says as he shuts the door.

I step forward, and the officer extends his hand. “You have to stay five feet away from him at all times.”

I set my purse down, giving myself something to do other than look at the man I betrayed.

“Thank you,” Grayson says, “for saving my life, doc.”

I suck in a breath and face him. “Did you attempt to take your own life?”

“Did it hurt you?”

“What?”

“Did saving my life hurt you?” He nods at me. “You’re back. You’re limping.”

I hadn’t even noticed that I’d been coddling the pain. “No,” I answer. “I’m not hurt. Now tell me the truth. Did you—?”

“No, I didn’t try to take my own life.” His accent is thicker with the sedative.

I lift my chin. “The ER doctor said you dosed yourself with over a thousand milligrams of penicillin. One might consider that a suicide attempt. Especially when you’re well aware half that dosage is enough to kill you.”

He bats sleepy eyes and shrugs against the prop of pillows. “Maybe I did it just to see you one more time.”

I press my lips together. “Cut the shit, Grayson. You wanted to be the one to end your life. I understand that reasoning. If you were going to die, it was going to be on your own terms.” Not mine. “Am I correct?” I step closer.

“Sorry, doc. On this one, you couldn’t be more wrong.”

It happens fast. The guard reaches out to halt me. Grayson’s free hand grabs ahold of the guard’s wrist and yanks him over the gurney. He nails the guard in the back of the neck with his elbow. The gun appears in the commotion.

Grayson has the gun aimed at the officer’s temple. “Uncuff me,” he demands. But he’s not ordering the guard. He’s looking at me.

“No.”

His gaze hardens. “In five seconds, I’m going to pull the trigger. Do you want yet another life on your conscience?”

I wet my lips. Grayson has never directly killed a person. That I know of. My gut screams that he won’t do it now—that it goes against his compulsions, his beliefs…but then he’s never been in a position like this before.

I’ve taken his life, and he will make sure he has mine before it’s over.

I choose to save the man.

I unclip the keys from the officer’s belt and begin unshackling Grayson’s ankles from the gurney. “Let him go.”

Grayson waits until I’ve freed his wrist, then carefully stands, maneuvering the guard with him. The guard slings threats, attempting to alert the officer outside the room about the convict with the gun. Grayson clubs him over the back of the head. The cop doesn’t go down with the first strike, or the second, and I have to look away as Grayson beats him until he finally drops to the floor.

“You’re an animal,” I say.

A smile kicks up the corner of his mouth. “Takes one to know one, baby.”

The door of the ER room opens.

I’m spun around and pulled against Grayson’s chest. I feel the press of the steel barrel under my chin. I’m shaking, but the gun forces my head high, and I refuse to let fear show on my face.

“Drop the weapon!” the officer shouts.

Grayson doesn’t obey. He digs the barrel deeper, holding me in place. “I doubt I have more to lose than you, so don’t be a hero for minimum wage, officer. I will kill this woman here, then I will fire off shots until the clip is empty, taking out as many people as possible before I go down.” The cop holds his aim on Grayson. “Now, shut the door and lower your gun.”

After a tense standoff, the officer closes the room door. He keeps his weapon trained on Grayson and me for another few seconds, then sets it on the floor.

“Slide it over,” Grayson orders.

The cop does so reluctantly. “Backup will be here shortly,” he tries to assure me.

Grayson nudges my back. “Strip the cop,” he says. “Pants and shirt. Now.”

I bite my lip as I lower myself toward the unconscious man, then slowly pull off his shoes. My gaze snags the gun on the floor, but Grayson confiscates it first. He uses the officer’s handcuffs to lock him to the bedrail before he knocks him over the head with the gun.

I curse, knowing that it’s now—right now. I have to escape. He’s completely unhinged.

I grunt as I tug the pants down the man’s legs. “If you kill me, then you’ll never truly have your revenge. You can’t destroy a dead person.”

Grayson grabs the nape of my neck and hauls me up, bringing me close. “I wish you would’ve talked this dirty during our sessions.”

Anger spikes my blood, fueling a rush of adrenaline. I try to knee him, but he’s there to block my attempt. He groans and grips my hair tighter. I spot a syringe on the tray and spring for it, ignoring the pain it costs me to break out of his grasp. I hear the tear of my hair giving way.

I have the needle in shaky hands, aimed at his neck. “I will shred your jugular before you squeeze that trigger, I swear to God.”

He watches me intently, his teeth capture his lip to restrain a smile. “And I know just how good you are at that. I’m looking forward to more play time later,” he says, then his hand covers mine, forcing my arm back until I drop the needle. “But right now, I just want you to relax.”

I’m breathing hard. “Do it fast.”

“All right.” He grips my face and backs me against the wall. My heart lurches into my throat as his gaze darkens. Then his mouth closes over mine, the kiss stealing what’s left of my breath. He pulls away with a gleam in his eyes. “But I’m not taking your life.”

“What the fuck do you want, then?”

He finishes removing the officer’s clothes and dresses hurriedly. He slides on the uniform pants and belt, then throws off the hospital gown before slipping a white T-shirt over his head. I spy the ink on his back and curse. I inch backward toward the door, but he notices my retreat.

I stop.

“You assume I want to kill you because of what you did to me,” he says as he snatches the cop’s radio and clips it to his belt. “But that’s just your guilt. You’ve trained yourself to feel it in order to blend.” He spits the word at me. “Let go of it. It gets in your way. I would’ve done the same to you.”

He grabs my purse and digs out my phone. He drops the phone and stomps on it, then places my bag over my shoulder. “Do you need your glasses to see?”

I squint. “I have an astigmatism. So, yes…and no.”

He removes my glasses and places them in my bag. He then turns my back to his chest and presses the barrel of the gun to my head.

“Fuck. Grayson, what the hell do you want from me?”

“Be a good hostage and open the door.”

Through the adrenaline, I make the connection. It slides together like a puzzle piece snapping in place. And I’m the piece of the puzzle that he’s shaped to secure his freedom.

“You used me,” I accuse.

“To be fair, we used each other.”

I open the door.