Kicking the rock lying on the ground, I huff so loudly in frustration that the woman walking next to me jumps, but I don’t care.

Rejection, once again.

I barely restrain myself from bursting into tears as the realization sinks into me and my knees buckle, but Chloe’s strong hands catch me in time. “Shhh, babe. Let’s sit down.” She guides me toward the bench at the side of the New York Police Department building, where we sit down as people pass with curious glances, probably at my mascara-smeared red face.

I don’t even try to stop my tears as I press the heels of my palms on my eyes. “It’s over,” I murmur, desperation and resignation lacing my voice.

Although it probably was over a few years ago when Dean Holt warned me no one would ever approve of me getting into criminal psychology.

It seems everyone has made it their mission to make it impossible for me. And I finally accept my defeat, having no strength left to fight an entire system.

Chloe pats my back, while saying, “It’s all right, babe. You can always look in other cities.”

“No one will give me a job in any type of field work, and without that, it’s impossible to get into BAU, and you know that.” Even though the FBI refused me, I still hoped after I had a few years of experience, they’d let me work for them.

She stays silent, not having anything to say to that.

No matter how much I’ve studied, no matter that I’ve read all the books on criminal psychology and took them as general electives, all my knowledge doesn't count for shit for those people. They just look at my past and assume this work is not for me, that I’m on some kind of revenge path.

I’m not. I just want to give other families out there a fighting chance.

Is that so wrong?

“I thought you love working with—”

I don’t let her finish. “Yes, I work with abused women and kids in shelters and at the centers, because I want to help them. But if I worked in BAU, I would actually have the chance to prevent the rapes and abuses from happening. Don’t you understand? Sometimes it’s too late to fix the problem once the monster inflicts his evil. Those kids and women have to live with it forever,” I yell in her face, while she stoically listens. She takes a sip of her tea, exhales a heavy breath, and then raises my chin so she can have my whole attention.

“But it doesn't mean your work doesn't bring any value. Those people have no one but you to let them know it’s okay to move on, and they shouldn't be stuck with their scars. It’s worth a lot too, girl. If you don’t see it, then maybe your two degrees in psychology mean shit.” Then she stands up and gives me a glance over her shoulder. “Once this self-pity party is done, call me. We are in need of shopping.” With those parting words, she leaves me alone, strolling down the street, her blonde hair swaying from side to side.

As much as I hate it, she is right. I’ve spent all this time trying to get into that kind of work while devaluing everything else in my life.

Is it worth it, though? Smiles and grateful words from the kids at the shelter flash through my mind, reminding me that I make a difference in their lives. That they know they matter and no one is allowed to treat them that way.

I give them something important. I teach them no one has the right to bring them pain. How can I view it as nothing, simply because I don’t get to work for the FBI?

My attitude is disrespectful to all of them and to me. I’ve worked my ass off for the position I have now. Even if criminal psychology’s door is forever closed for me, the rest welcome me with open arms. I attend every convention, have connections in many places, and make sure to write a daily column for one of the female blogs.

This counts for something, a hell of a fucking lot.

Wiping away the wetness from my cheeks, I get up, put on my sunglasses, and grin widely, hoping I will find peace in knowing I’m doing something valuable.

Even if catching serial killers is not one of those things.

Ella

Silence echoes through the space as the soft light showcases the office in a mysterious way, with not another soul around. No one’s stuck around after hours; most of them have a family. All the desks are neat and tidy, as the janitor lady has cleaned already and left, but not before warning me to make sure not to mess the place up or she will remember my name.

I sure as hell won’t leave a mess.

I’ve spent the whole day going over the case in between a few different ones too. Mostly it was paperwork, and we didn’t have much to do on them.

Kierian stayed true to his word and even dropped me a few blocks away so no one would see us driving in together. He acted so distant and professional that no one could have guessed what we’d shared.

He wanted to take me home, but I refused, because I need to concentrate on the case. Or that was the excuse I gave him.

Truthfully, I’m surprised he let it go so easily, and relieved at the same time. He respects my boundaries and doesn’t try to push this thing on me, now that I’ve stopped denying there is one.

I can totally work with that.

But deep down, I can admit to myself I’m a little bit scared to go back home alone when the unsub knows where I live. And I don’t want to bring all those bad pictures and details home anyway; it’s supposed to be my sanctuary.

No blood or murder belongs in my house.

I try to unscramble all the wounds the unsub has left on the victims, racking my brain for a clue why he would let his dog do the rest. What was the whole point of kidnapping those poor men? To torture and kill them in the vilest ways? Why is he so easily satisfied and doesn’t feel attached to his victims?

Pouring myself a cup of freshly made coffee, I groan inwardly as spasms of pain travel from my nape to my lower back, reminding me of the stiff chairs in the office that drive me crazy. The idea of spending one more minute in it kills me, but I have no other choice, considering I plan to figure it all out tonight.

“You know, ancient Greeks believed all our pain comes from our mind.”

I jump at the soft voice behind me and swirl around on the chair to face Preston holding his bottle of water and smiling at me.

The guy can actually freaking smile!

Blinking a few times, I finally speak. “You don’t say.”

He nods, sitting on my desk while continuing his thought. “Healthy mind in a healthy body. I think they couldn’t name it back then, but they meant psychology. One of the reasons I got interested in this art so many years ago.”

“It’s science,” I correct, but he brushes me off.

“No, it’s the art of learning a mind. What can be greater than that?”

I don’t think I’ve heard the guy talk so much in the span of one minute. “That’s because you love it. I suppose it’s like that for everyone who loves their profession.”

“Maybe the pain in your back will ease once the problem in your head resolves.”

A light laugh escapes me. “And here I was, Preston, hoping it would go away with a nice bath. Seems like I’ll have to live with the pain till the case is closed.”

He doesn’t comment on that, just stares, but then his eyes land on the book, as he exclaims, “The Iliad!” Picking it up, he flips it open while searching for a certain page, and then points his finger to the quote. “My favorite part.”

Everything inside me freezes. I swallow the coffee that all of a sudden becomes bitter in my mouth. My mind registers the words in the quote; my palms get sweaty while my breath hitches.

How many people are out there these days who love this book and have a favorite part memorized?

“I see.” My survival instinct screams for me to scoot back and run away from him as he actively studies me and then exhales heavily while adjusting his glasses firmly on his nose.

“Now you think I’m a freak or something. Noah and Kierian love it too. Actually, we had to do it for work.”

Slowly I resume breathing, cursing my stupidity, because honestly, did I seriously think he could be a serial killer? They don’t hang out with us!

“Interesting case?” Why didn’t Kierian mention that to me earlier, then? He could have helped with the research, but he didn’t even offer.

Preston nodded while elaborating. “There was a weird case of a dude who was obsessed with Greek mythology and stuff. He had different quotes scattered around his place, and we sort of had to read a lot of stuff. To understand him, we had to read this book, because he associated himself with King Agamemnon.” He rolls his eyes as if he finds the notion alone stupid. “But we did like the masterpiece.”

“Why?” Maybe if he explains to me his love for it, I can connect all the clues that the unsub desperately wants me to find. And although I realize it’s a dangerous game I’m playing with him, I don’t intend to give up until I find him.

“It shows what war does with mankind in the span of a decade, when people had different lives and values. Of course, some historians claim it’s nothing but a myth, but it was discovered that Troy indeed existed.” He pauses as if gathering his thoughts while I make some notes on my pad. “But also, it’s the characters… it’s very character driven, you know? I think we can all find ourselves there if we try.” His cheeks are flushed and he avoids my stare.

Character driven.

That must be it! He found his character and associates himself with him. “Who was your favorite?” I ask, but he stands abruptly, his water spilling onto his pants as he curses under his breath.

“I won’t tell you now. You have to read it first. I think then you will guess.” With that odd statement, he walks away while I’m left confused.

Even though he didn’t say anything major, a feeling of doom around him doesn’t escape me, and I always trust my instinct. I just can’t name what I find odd about Preston.

Shaking my head from the complicated scenarios, I bring all my attention back to the case while munching on the cookies I was smart enough to bring.

It’s taken me almost eight hours, but I’ve finally figured it out.

And in a way, the truth breaks me.

The profile is done.

Psychopath

The honk of the car snaps my attention to the right as I wave at Christian, our coworker who recently got married, and he motions for me to call him sometime.

Cracking my neck from side to side, enjoying the pleasure it provides me, I think about bringing an iPad next time while waiting for Ella. Nothing but excellent planning has gotten me to this level, the small fact of preparation most serial killers skip.

And that’s why they are caught.

She decided to stay inside last night, working on catching me, and I couldn’t leave her alone without security.

I have every intention to hurt her slightly, but no one else has this right, and with life, you never know. I didn’t work so hard to get her here to have an accident happen and ruin my plans, especially with the anniversary so close.

The idea of spending every night in the car waiting for her doesn’t bother me much. I’ve learned to operate on minimal sleep.

You never know when a monster will decide to disturb your sleep.

Running my fingers through my hair, I get out of the car and walk to the building while checking the current news report. I don’t find anything interesting.

“Good morning,” security greets me, while I press my badge to the gate.

“Hey, Karl. Everything good?”

He nods, sipping his tea while several doughnuts lie nearby. “Yes. Only, Ella Gadot stayed the night.” He frowns at that, probably not understanding why a young woman would be this dedicated to the new case.

I don’t understand it either, but a thrill of pleasure spreads into my veins when I think how much my actions attract her mind. She should be careful with her attention, or I’ll bring her a new body.

Once inside the BAU, I stop in my tracks as my eyes drink in the beauty Ella presents asleep at her desk, her body bending while her cheek rests against the plastic table. Her shirt is wrinkled and light puffs of air slip through her lips, emphasizing the fullness of them that I long to bite to see how quickly I can draw blood.

A silky black lock falls across her nose, and she winces a little, not liking it, so I can’t resist removing it. Immediately, she calms down. She looks so innocent right now, so young, so pure that the idea of bringing her to my basement for a second feels wrong.

My darkness shouldn’t touch a person who has already suffered enough nightmares.

But then the smell of her perfume penetrates my nostrils, and it pulls me out of the haze created in my mind by her.

She is mine.

And I will take good care of her once she proves she can stay around… no matter what.

Unfortunately for her, it means being kidnapped and tortured until—

The screams from the past assault me, and I slap my head, grabbing onto the desk while the anger and pain shake my body.

I count to ten as I concentrate only on the numbers and how they look in my head, so no images of the past will enter it again.

In seconds, everything passes, but it once again reminds me that remorse and the greater good hold no meaning for me.

Selfishly, I need Ella to numb the past, and it has to happen sooner rather than later.

Otherwise, I will go insane.

Ella

“Ella, wake up.” A deep voice penetrates through the haze of sleep and my eyes flutter open.

A groan of pain leaves me as I sit up straight, disoriented, while wincing at the stiffness in my back. I should really invest in massages with this job, no joke.

Finally, I register where I am and raise my eyes to the three men standing at my side, each one of them with a different expression. I blink, not used to such attention.

Noah, well put together in his suit as always, has surprise crossing his face as he glances at my spread notes. Avoiding my gaze, Preston sips his coffee and holds one out for me, which I gladly take, and I’m not even surprised it’s my favorite flavor. This guy is full of secrets!

Kierian chuckles in amusement, and once again, my body reacts to that smile, but I shake my head, hoping to escape that. “Hey, sleeping beauty. Rough night?”

Noah rolls his eyes, shooting him a warning, “Kierian.” But then adds, “When I said think about the case, I didn’t mean to stay at the office twenty-four seven.”

That’s when it hits me.

The case!

“I know who he is.” They freeze, zeroing their whole attention on me. Licking my dry lips, I get up, waving a file in front of them. “Well, I mean, I know why he does what he does.”

“Let’s hear it then, because so far we have nothing. In the conference room in five,” Noah orders and goes to his office, leaving me alone with the guys.

“I need to prepare my laptop,” Preston says out of the blue and runs into the computer room.

“It’s not healthy.” Kierian leans closer, removing the strands of hair from my forehead, and this barely noticeable touch surges a rush of energy around us, creating an unfamiliar cocoon, and I swallow. Before I can even blink, he gives me three light pecks on the lips, burning me up with each touch.

This job will be the end of me.

I step back, looking around, hoping that no one saw it. “Kierian.”

He ignores my hiss, as he picks up my books and notes. “We have no restrictions about dating coworkers.”

I almost choke on my drink, wincing as it burns my lips. “You’re sure?”

He shrugs. “No one ever informed me otherwise.”

“Relationships don’t work for me most of the time.” I feel the need to warn him, because if we truly decide to make it a thing, maybe we shouldn’t inform anyone. Who knows how long it will last? “So hold your horses, Kierian.”

“Why not?” Curiosity and boredom, if that’s possible, lace his voice as he moves slowly in the direction of the conference room, where I can see through the glass door to the rest of the team occupying their chairs and laughing at something Jacob shows them on his phone.

“They just don’t.” I’ve tried relationships twice, and both times, I failed.

“Do you know what my most prominent character trait is?” he asks, right before pushing the door wide open.

“What?”

“Stubbornness. And when I want something, I get it. You are mine, Ella. Just accept it,” he whispers against my ear and then steps inside, while I sigh heavily, praying for patience and resistance, because God knows I’ll need it with him.

Unsub, I remind myself. Think about the unsub, Ella.

Noah raises his brow. “You said you’ve got something?” Nodding, I quickly turn around the board that shows us all the victims spread horizontally with the detailed description of their wounds along with some hypotheses about our unsub.

“Okay, so remember how I said it’s odd that the victim’s wife acted so weird?”

Andrea nodded. “Yeah, she wasn’t crying.”

“Right.” I grab the black marker as I go to the white board and quickly write all the wounds. “So first, he goes for the kidneys. Then he moves slowly to the gut. Then it’s the back. And finally the throat and face.”

“We know that,” Jacob’s voice is filled with boredom, and I grit my teeth and continue. A little bit of patience wouldn’t hurt! “Also, once he is done with them, he leaves them for his dog to tear apart. He doesn’t bother to inflict more pain on them than those three main wounds. The last victim was an exception.”

“Ella, I hope you are going somewhere with this, because so far this is all in the file.” Noah drums his pen on the table, although his assertive eyes focus on my writing as if he is trying to figure out my train of thought.

“I’ve spent the last few years working with abused women. Do you know where they were usually hurt? Kidneys/ribs”—with each word, I point at the board, the sound echoing through the space emphasizing it even more—“Stomach. Arms. Back. Throat. And finally face.” You can kick at a kidney and there will be no bruises left.

Kierian crosses his arms and leans on the table while rubbing his chin.

Preston, however, clicks with his fingers, and says, “The wife of the first victim. She was covered from head to toe and got nervous whenever we asked her about family pictures.”

“Connecting all this, I can only make one conclusion.”

“Her husband abused her,” Andrea says, but then straightens. “So our unsub hurts men who abuse their women.”

Noah raises his brow, while scrolling through his file. “That would be the missing piece that connects them all. That’s his victimology.”

“I’ll check out the other victims’ families. Their medical records, absence at work or school, everything.” Preston’s fingers immediately click on the laptop, his focus sharp, and I hope he can find helpful information.

No matter what the unsub does, his killings are wrong. Those men don’t deserve kindness, but he shouldn’t be the judge, jury, and executioner.

“Call in Mary Parker. We need to ask her a few more questions,” Noah says to Andrea, and then his attention is back on me. “Anything else to add?” The book in my bag weighs heavily on my shoulder and conscience, but I don’t tell him about it. I know it holds the key to figuring out where he is, but if they find out he’s targeted me specifically, they might put me off the case.

The unsub threw me a challenge and I intend to win. People like him are the reason my family died. I’ll put him behind bars, no matter the cost. I can’t give up on my first case.

I shake my head and clear my throat. “I think we will have a profile once we confirm it with Mary. Then we can move on.” And although that’s usually the extent of our job, I hope like hell he makes one more wrong move so we’ll be closer to catching him.

Ella

“Ella,” Noah calls, and I spin around to face him. “Mary Parker is here. She’s waiting in the office.” Nodding, I quickly grab the file and dart toward the office while searching for the appropriate words in my head.

She’s sitting on the chair, this time alone, while fumbling with her fingers. She shifts uncomfortably as I walk in. “Agent Gadot. Your call surprised me.” She shakes my hand, but at the same time, worry crosses her face.

“There are a few new details regarding your case.”

She freezes, barely breathing. “What details? Is he alive?”

My expression remains neutral, but with this statement, she confirms our profile is correct. Usually a family will demand to see the body, but in this case, she wants to forget him like a bad dream.

“No, of course not. But we have a few questions for you.” She exhales in relief and nods. “I need you to be honest with me please. Everything you say stays in this room, but it will be very important for the case.”

“Yes, okay.”

Pausing for a second, I ask gently, “Mrs. Parker, did he abuse you?” She swallows and casts her eyes down. Working for so long with such women, I know what she is feeling right now. Shame for staying with such a man. But she shouldn’t. “It’s very important for us to know.”

She takes a deep breath and speaks up. “He wasn’t at first.” She licks her lips, while cracking her knuckles. “He was so gentle, so attentive. It felt like I was the only girl in the world for him.” She gulps from the water bottle then continues. “Everything changed once we got married. He became quiet, nervous, and every little thing would piss him off. It started with screaming and gradually transformed into punches.”

My heart aches for her, imagining how scary it must be to have the one person you trust the most turn their back on you and transform into a monster. People often ask how all those women could not see the signs, that it must be obvious. The truth is that the abusers are the best at hiding it.

Deception is their favorite mask, because that’s how they lure in their victims.

My brows furrow, my mind lingering on that information, but I shake my head, pushing it back to dwell on later. I concentrate on Mary, who now bites her thumb, nervously tapping her foot, and by the glazed look in her eyes, I realize she is not here anymore, but back in time with her husband.

“He apologized at first. He would bring me gifts and beg me to take him back. I wasn’t weak because I didn’t say anything,” she assures me, her cheeks flushing.

“Of course not. You were in a bad situation.”

She laughs bitterly. “I should have run away from him the minute he became abusive, but I hoped and hoped. Then I got pregnant and I had no choice,” she finishes on a whisper.

While all this confirms our theory, it doesn’t really help us much in the investigation, so I probe softly. “Do you remember anyone new in your circle? Someone who might have known about his abusive ways?”

“No, it’s impossible. He was loving in public, and besides, we just recently moved.”

Except the unsub must have spied on them. Otherwise, what explains his obsession with the victims?

Noah raises his chin in question through the glass door, and I shake my head, because this information doesn’t move us forward. How does the unsub find these men?

“Although—” she starts, and my ears perk up. She straightens in her seat, frowning. “One day, after he disappeared, there was this man who stopped by the door asking if I, by any chance, had lost a bike. It stood on the road, but I told him it wasn’t mine. I thought he was just a neighbor. He apologized and was about to leave, but then he murmured that my nightmare had ended. He also glanced at my baby, but I got scared and shut the door in his face.”

The baby. He didn’t come to check on the mother.

Oh my God.

“Do you remember what he looked like?”

“He wore a hoodie and sunglasses, and had a beard. I wouldn’t recognize him.” She gasps in shock. “Was he the killer?” Knowledge that it may have been the killer who stopped by her house might fill her with fear, and since I’m sure he won’t attack her, I try my best to reassure her.

“Not likely. But this information helps us. Thank you, Mary.” She nods and I pause for a second, contemplating my next action but do it nevertheless. I place the card of the center where I used to work in her hand. “If you ever feel like talking, it’s a good place to share your pain.”

She holds it in her hand for a few seconds, then whispers, “He is dead.”

I smile sadly. “Unfortunately, the scars they leave behind stay.”

She doesn’t say anything else, but puts it into her bag, and with a pat on her shoulder, she exits the office while I huff in frustration.

We made a mistake in the profile, a small detail that changes everything.

What did you have to live through, unsub?

Psychopath

Pressing the elevator button, I curse the thing for taking so long when I feel a presence next to me.

Glancing to my side, I recognize the woman, the wife of one of my previous victims as she thinks about something, absently gazing at the doors.

The elevator dings and she gets inside along with me. I study her features. She’s gained some weight, which is probably normal considering she just recently had a child, but there is also an aura of calmness around her.

And most importantly, no fresh bruises.

I don’t know what a sane person should feel in this moment, but the only thing running through my mind is the fact that her child will be free of all the nightmares his mother experienced.

A minute later, the door slides open. I’m about to leave, when her murmured voice stops me in my tracks.

“Thank you.” A pause as her breath hitches. “I recognize the tattoo. It was you.”

I do not react to her statement and continue to walk toward the printing center.

My job here is done.

Ella

“Where is Noah?” I fire the question at Andrea, who munches on her doughnut.

“Have no clue. The guys are scattered all over the place. Why, do you have new information on the unsub? The wife remembered something?” She wipes her hands clean, her whole focus on me.

“The unsub went to the house to check on her.”

“What?”

“Yes. But that’s not what makes it so interesting, if that word can be applied here.”

“Then what?” She truly looks confused, while studying the pictures in front of her from the crime scenes. “He is a serial killer! And you are not concerned he was at the house?” She hustles through the notes. “We need to check surveillance cameras. Maybe they managed to catch his face.”

“He is punishing the abuser.”

“To protect the wives because he surrogates them for his mother. I know.” But that’s the thing though—she doesn’t understand.

Noah and Kierian walk in, and I spin to face them. “It’s the kids.” Their brows rise, so I elaborate. “The unsub is saving the kids from having to live the life he went through. It’s not about the mothers.”

“Meaning he surrogates himself with kids?” Andrea slaps her forehead. “This is even worse.”

“How is this worse?” I mean, it does change the variables, but not the outcome. It just means we need to look at family men, because those will be his victims. And this profile allows us to search through databases for him.

Noah speaks up. “He kills the fathers, because he knows no one will protect the kids. His mother, in his mind, failed him. So he is doing the dirty job, so to speak.”

“But why is it dangerous?”

Everyone stays silent and only Andrea speaks. “One day, he will meet a woman he wants. And he will punish her for it, because in his mind, love is a fleeting emotion that needs to be punished.”

As in, he can fall in love with a woman?

It’s scary to think what his love entails.

The police officers stand in front of us, ready to listen, although I can see they huff in annoyance, clearly not expecting to hear much.

A detective claps his hands. “Okay, everybody, listen up.”

Quiet falls in the room as Noah clears his throat. “We are ready to present the profile.” He nods at Andrea, and she steps forward, firing information like bullets while officers write it on their notepads, their pens scratching against the paper and reminding me that I’ve missed something.

The book. I still haven’t found the connection to the book. Why did he send it to me if it’s not related to the case?

“Our unsub is a man around twenty-five to thirty-five years old. He needs to be in good shape to carry the bodies and fight them when they resist. All his victims have one thing in common: they abused their wives, and probably their kids. That’s why all the pain he inflicts has to do with domestic abuse.” She continues, “He grew up most likely with a violent father and psychologically absent mother.”

“Child molestation?” one of the officers asks, but I shake my head.

“No, at least not to him. He only hurts men, but he doesn’t touch their genitals, which implies that he wasn’t raped as a child. His mission is to bring as much pain to the victim as possible. In other words, he puts them in a helpless position. Like all their victims were.”

“He is confident, controlled, and meticulous in choosing his victims. He is extremely smart and manipulative. He is educated and charming, so it’s easy for him to be part of society. Considering that anyone rarely knows what happens behind closed doors, he spies on his victims and never picks someone randomly,” Jacob pitches in. “In other words, we are dealing with a psychopath with years of experience. He probably started back in his teens.”

“You mentioned psychologically absent mother. What do you mean by that? Will his next victim be the wives?”

We share a look, and I decide to answer that. “His mother probably took all of it without fighting back, allowing the husband to grow more violent. In most cases, statistically, such women either die of their injuries or commit suicide.” My heart hurts for the small child and woman who lived through hell, because no one deserves that, but at the same time, it doesn’t excuse what he does.

“In most such cases, child has a chance, but our unsub…” Andrea pauses, then remorse fills her voice. “… had no chance.”

“He will never stop, because in his mind, he doesn’t do anything wrong.” Jacob shares the most important information, as it’s crucial. Our unsub doesn’t feel remorse of any kind.

In his eyes, he is the savior.

“All those men are surrogates for his father. Each time he kills one of them, he kills his father all over again,” I say, and they blink in surprise.

“You think his first victim was his father?”

“One of the victims. Usually the person hates the father so much they want to inflict the most torture on them. And it takes training.”

“So how do we catch this guy?” asks a police officer, and isn’t that a good freaking question?

Noah steps in. “The profile gives you more or less an idea of him. If he shows up again, you will know, as he likes the attention. Catching serial killers like him takes months, if not years. He needs to make a mistake.”

The conversation continues as they make plans and adjustments, and that’s when I catch Kierian’s gaze, as he gives me a harsh stare I can’t quite understand.

But maybe it’s about the book. In such circumstances, can I really hide it? The team deserves to know.

It won’t change much, since the case is now in the police’s hands unless something crucial comes up, but what if I put my team at risk?

Psychopath

I squeeze the plastic cup in my hand so tight it buckles, splashing hot coffee on my wrist. A policewoman close to me gasps and quickly gives me a tissue. “Thanks,” I mutter, hating every word uttered by the team as they present the profile to the police officers, because it feels like she is justifying my life, but doing it coldly and making me sound insane.

When in fact, I’m the sanest person of them all! What do they know about my life anyway? Sociopaths, psychopaths, serial killers. Who sees our side of things, truly? Criminal psychology teaches you how to catch them.

It doesn't teach you to truly understand them.

But she is wrong. About my motives and my end game. She will know soon though.

The action needs to speed up, because I can’t control my anger anymore and can barely contain myself during sex. It doesn't bring me the pleasure or clarity of the mind it used to.

But getting Ella will, because it seems she is the only one who truly understands me.

Mine.