The thrum of voices carries through the intimidating expanse of the courtroom. The ceiling is as high as the Shard and boasts beautiful, ancient-looking patterns which all lead up to the dome in the centre. The judges with their silly wigs murmur amongst themselves as the girl, who once thought of herself as strong, now sits in the very back row—out of sight and feeling extremely vulnerable for the first time in a long time. Her eyes dart to the back of the man’s head as she takes the chance to watch him now that he’s not watching her. If he starts to look around, she plans to duck behind the people in front of her. She doesn’t want to make eye contact with him or see him any more than she has to. She’s had enough of him to last a lifetime. She can’t help but notice, however, that his hair has been cut, and from what she can see, he’s lost quite a lot of weight. His shoulders aren’t as broad as she remembers either. In fact, she is certain that she can see his bones sticking out from his prison suit.

A knocking sound along with an apology from a giggling female makes her lose focus. She darts her eyes to the offending couple who is busy laughing amongst themselves, presumably joking about whatever has just transpired.

Then she remembers that she hasn’t been watching him. Her eyes dart back to where he is seated, and when they do, her breath catches.

He is staring right at her.

All colour drains from her face, and her heartbeat accelerates, hitting hard against her chest. Her hands are clammy, and her breathing has become erratic. For the few seconds that they continue to stare at each other, she desperately wants to look away, but finds she is unable to do so.

He smirks that evil smirk she came to know during their last years together. She always thought that his smirk somehow meant that he was on her side, but now she knows he was secretly mocking her. Panic sets in. She berates herself. She’s stronger than this. She’s been through a lot worse, so this should be a picnic.

The noise of a door opening catches her attention, and raised voices lower to a whisper. “All rise,” says the usher as some who are already standing in the aisle take their positions next to their seats, whilst others rise from their chairs. For a moment, she watches as the judge walks through, but then her gaze wanders back in his direction. He’s still smirking at her, but knowing he’ll get caught, he faces forward, his attention now appropriately focused on the judge.

She fights the recurring impulse to leave. Her own better judgement has been telling her from the beginning that she shouldn’t be here, but she wanted to hear what her psychiatrist would say if she forced herself to stay. That was the only thing on her mind when she left on the train this morning.

The judge saunters onto his platform and swiftly sits down. “You may be seated,” the usher shouts before quickly walking out of sight.

A creak from a chair is heard from the next row as a man tries to get comfortable in his seat. She notes then how hard the seats actually are, and she too shifts in her seat, swapping one leg for the other as she crosses them. Her heart has calmed, but she can still feel his presence all over the room, and despite the fact that he can’t be wearing any, she can still smell his aftershave. As it stings the back of her throat, memories drift through her mind—unpleasant memories of the time she was taken. It has been years, but she still thinks of them as if they had happened only yesterday. They continue to burn a hole in her mind and cement themselves deep within.

A small shudder passes through her, and the man sitting next to her notices and briefly looks her way. At first, his face is impassive, but then recognition sets in. Scared he may say something, she deliberately looks away, shifting her focus to the front of the room. The judge sifts through some papers and then clears his throat. That’s when the man sitting next to her decides to turn and face front. Her heart calms again, and she releases a deep breath.

“Mr Devenport, do you have your witness?”

“I do, Your Honour.”

“Then, proceed.”

“Your Honour, the court would like to call Dr Sophie Richards to the stand.”

Excitement bubbles in the air as Dr Richards rises from her seat and walks towards the witness box. There, she sits and a Bible is immediately pushed in front of her. She places her hand on the Bible and picks up a piece of paper, which is lying upon the wooden edge of the box she’s sitting in.

“I, Dr Sophie Richards, swear by almighty God to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.”

The judge thanks Dr Richards, and she, in turn, briefly smiles in his direction. The prosecutor then stands, and all eyes rest on him. “Dr Richards, can you tell me how long you have been practicing psychiatry?”

She leans forward towards the microphone. “Fifteen years.”

“And in those fifteen years, have you ever come across a case of abduction and confinement like the one Miss Jackson endured?”

“Objection!” The defence attorney shouts. “Calls for speculation.”

She still sits in the back, heart hammering. The prosecution has been pushing the idea that she wanted to be taken—that she lived there of her own free will.

The judge offers the defence an annoyed narrowing of his eyes. “Overruled.”

Her heart calms. The judge is on her side. Everyone who has been following this case is on her side. She was only fifteen when she was taken—a child.

“My apologies, Dr Richards. Please answer the question.”

Dr Richards also looks pissed by the defence’s interference. Of course she would after months of sessions with Ray Jackson. She had been the one and only person who had heard just about every minute detail of what occurred over a period of almost three years.

Her arms still throb from the burns she sustained a few days ago, but she ignores them for now. Her focus is solely on her psychiatrist.

“I have had a couple of patients who also fit a similar bill. I believe that’s why I was chosen to treat Miss Jackson.”

The prosecuting lawyer waves his hand. “So, you’ve had experience in the field?”

Dr Richards nods her head. “Yes.”

“And, in your terms, what symptoms was Miss Jackson displaying when she was found and eventually brought home?”

Dr Richards feels that horrible pang in the pit of her stomach. She had felt that even before she had met poor Ray. The stories Ray told had horrified her. The manipulation of the man in court today went beyond anything she had ever encountered.

“She was having nightmares, displaying signs of PTSD, and she had started having panic attacks.”

“This obviously came after she had been found and was told the truth about her mother being alive?”

She leans forward and says, “Correct.”

“In fact, would it be fair to say that during the time she was with the defendant, she was—for the most part—content?”

Dr Richards winces at the term, and the prosecuting solicitor offers a smile of apology. “I wouldn’t say content. I would say that she learned to accept the life she thought she had. She was led to believe that she was on her own and had no one other than Mr Winters to care for her.” At the mere mention of his name, she turns to look at the man who had caused Ray Jackson so many nightmares. The psychiatrist in her wanted nothing more than to pick his brains apart piece by piece to see what lies inside. But, without a shadow of a doubt, she knows that whatever she might find in there would end up giving her nightmares as well … because Liam Winters is nothing less than a monster.