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“He’s living in regular population,” he confirms.

We stop at the door to D hall, and Dr. Grayson swipes his card.

“We aim for rehabilitation if it’s possible. And in some cases, it’s absolutely not possible.”

“And is it possible for him to be rehabilitated?”

“He’ll spend the rest of his life here. His delusions have stopped due to the extensive therapy and medication we provide him. He’s able to live a normal life inside these walls. He does better being around people.”

“Who pays for him to be here?”

He shoots me a look. “His very embarrassed wealthy brother.”

We’ve arrived at the door to his office.

“Does he communicate remorse?”

“You tell me after conference.”

“I hope he had a big breakfast,” I say.

This makes him laugh, which makes me laugh. I’m distracted when we walk into his office, and not entirely by Dr. Grayson.

Something else has struck my interest, something even worse than doing conference with a rehabilitated cannibal.

I want to ask him who in D hall is not able to be rehabilitated, but there’s a knock on the door.

“You okay?” Dr. Grayson asks. I nod, but my throat is convulsively swallowing. I’m sitting on his side of the desk in a chair he pulled next to his, hands in my lap like a schoolgirl. Marshal is intended to sit across from us.

“I need to warn you, he does this thing with his fingers…” Dr. Grayson snaps his fingers three times.

“It’s a compulsion.”

I nod.

“Come in.” Janiss hustles a man into the room, her face stormy. She gives Dr. Grayson a meaningful look leaving. MDM is not what I was expecting. At five feet seven inches, he’s hardly imposing; he’s slight and hard like he’s made of wire. He’s wearing a button-down flannel shirt over black sweatpants. His hair is buzzed, face clean-shaven, expression penitent as a monk.

“Marshal,” Dr. Grayson says, “this is Iris. She will be leading conference today.”

I’m not sure if I’ve heard him right. I glance at Dr. Grayson’s face and he nods encouragingly. Blindsided, I feel my posture turn stiff and I don’t know what to do with my facial expression. I’d led group therapy at an outpatient mental health center as part of my undergraduate work, ten people would sit in a circle with me at the helm; and while I opened and closed the sessions it was the patients who did most of the talking. Most of their treatment was for addiction. Murder was not my forte.

Marshal snaps his fingers three times before nodding at me. He looks at Dr. Grayson as he sits down, a smirk propping up his little mouth.

He is alert, clear-eyed, and very much…functioning. Normally, in a situation like this I’d have an understanding of his diagnosis as well as his medical history. I can feel the doctor’s eyes on my face. A flush rushes up my neck. This is my audition, I realize. Grayson wants to see what I’ve got.

“Tell me about yourself,” I say. His hands are folded in his lap, gnarly, crooked fingers with thick blue veins. Tattoos crawl like errant bugs up his neck, symbols I don’t know the meaning of. His mouth twitches like he wants to laugh. Marshal glances at Dr. Grayson, who nods.

“All right,” he starts, looking back at me. “I like long walks on the beach, vigorous walks—”

He knows exactly how scared I am. It’s not a surprise that either of them is testing me.

There’s a tiny accent attached to his words.

“Are you from Australia?”

To my relief he nods, his expression lightening.

“Lived in Sydney my first twelve years. My mother immigrated after she divorced my father.”