Page 10

The voice is unwelcome and I lift my gaze to meet Porscha’s eyes. She’s sitting on my bed now, head cocked to the side, a superior, snobby look on her face. “He’s not lying there because he likes you.”
Even the imaginary version of her mocks me. I know she’s not real, just a figment of my subconscious, but she constantly badgers me anyway. I prefer to not talk to the therapists about this, so I keep the fact that a fake version of Jo’s mother has been hanging around mocking me for the past fifteen years as my own dirty little secret.
Something presses against my temple, ripping my attention away from the dead woman on my bunk. I turn to eye the other person.
“Jensen,” Sterling growls beneath me, “step back.”
“He’s pinning you-”
“And he’s going to get off,” Sterling hisses. It draws my eyes back to him again. “Right, Constantine?”
It’s always with the last name bullshit. I feel that we know each other intimately at this point. With an exaggerated sigh I let go of his hands, rocking back on my heels and standing with a practiced ease. I’ve known how to stand effortlessly without my hands for ages, because handcuffs are a bitch and I like being able to move around.
Once I’m up, I back away from the two of them, letting my gaze shift between both parties as silence blankets us. Sterling watches from the floor for a moment, his arms propped up behind him, and I’m wondering what he’s thinking.
Yesterday I got so much hell for speaking with Jo in the hall before they dragged me back to my room. I’m not dumb, and I’m positive that was a calculated interaction. I don’t usually get my one free hour at that time, and suddenly I needed to stay indoors for the duration of it? It’s BS if you ask me, and I hate being a pawn in someone else’s game.
What do the agents expect to happen? Jo isn’t a fangirl, she’s not going to throw herself at my feet and admit whatever I want her to just because I asked. She can’t stand me, and I know Vinny can’t either, so this wild chase to get me to open up about the copycat is a waste of time. I’ve tried to tell the CGPD and the FBI that I don’t know who is trying to continue the legacy of my murders, and I don’t have any guesses either.
Seeing Jo was nice, though.
But now I’m wondering what these two are doing back when there’s high security visitation rooms upfront. I know being in the FBI probably trumps a lot of shit, but aren’t I still considered extremely dangerous?
Sterling scrubs a hand down his face before standing, and I can’t help wondering what he sees as he surveys the room. Nurses, doctors, and therapists sometimes come in here, but never other prisoners, and definitely not agents or police officers. This is still a prison. Ever since lockup I’ve kept my acquaintances brief, and my friendships nonexistent.
Jensen, who I’ve seen a handful of times these past months, keeps his gaze on me for several more moments before holstering his gun. Officers usually carry in here, but guests typically don’t. I suppose the agents get a free pass on whatever they want. Jensen clears his throat as he keeps his eyes on me. “Ask him.”
Oh, so thereisan agenda.
Glancing at the bar-covered window in my room I can tell the sun is rising. I’m already off my agenda for the day. Usually the lights turn on and wake up the third floor where inmate cells are at 6 o’clock in the morning. The time change is coming soon and the sky outside is already bright, but it’s hard to decide exactly what time it is. Usually I’m bounced awake by the lights and have enough time to piss using the in-cell toilet, stand in boredom while they do a morning count of all inmates, and then head down to ignore the breakfast I’m supposed to get in line for down in the communal lunchroom. Agent Sterling Gideon just bounced me awake and fucked up my day before I had a chance to piss.
Sterling runs a hand through his hair. It doesn’t straighten out the flyaway pieces, but he carries on like this is nothing out of the ordinary. The anger on his face remains from before, and I thought it was just because I managed to pin him. Now, I’m not so sure. “How could you?”
I blink, staring between the two of them. Fake Porscha is suddenly gone again, and I’m on my own. “You’re going to have to explain, Gideon.”
He huffs. I know he hates it when I use his given name. “Candace Swan. The sweet nurse. How could you help someone kill her?”
Of course if they are here talking to me it’s got to be about death. Death and psychotic tendencies seem to be the only things people care to ask me about these days. Since I never gave anyone a reason why I killed fifteen women, reporters, theorists and even agents came up with their own reasoning behind my brutality. That doesn’t make any of it true, but even now staring into Sterling’s dark eyes I can see him grasping for an answer to this new murder just like his father did in years past.
Licking my lips, I think over the last two times they wanted to know about victims. It all started with the Estrada girl back in December, and ever since it’s just been one question after another about who I shared details of my killings with. There’s enough conspiracy theories and documentaries out there that the facts could come from anywhere if someone dug deep enough. The FBI should be jumping for joy with a copycat out there stirring up drama and distracting from everything else in the news. Instead, they fear the idea of a repeat more than the possibility that it’s just a one-off.
Narrowing my eyes, I decide to shrug. It’s not like I have anything against nurse Swan. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about. I’ve been here-”
“She’s dead,” Sterling interrupts, glaring at me like he’s certain I already know how she died. “They found her on the road between here and town.”
Surprise shoots through me, and I stomp down any sort of immediate outward response. I actually liked Candace. She had jokes from time to time and liked to gossip about her day to day life instead of going through the motions at work like a soulless robot each time I saw her. The break from clinical calculation and professionalism was nice.
She also didn’t pretend like we were ever going to become friends, and I liked that. Sometimes she shared details she shouldn’t because Candace was a talker. She told me about her fling with Kyle, and in my head I couldn’t help wishing she picked some other guard. Wallsburg is a first-class douche, at least in my interactions with him. Maybe he’s nicer when he’s not dealing with a serial killer. My morbid curiosity kicks in and I tilt my head. Copycat or not,I’mnot the one out there killing anymore, and I don’t have details. “Dead like the others?”
Sterling sneers. “Of course.”
Nodding slowly, I pace along the wall on this side of my room. The two agents stand like a united front across from me, and I imagine if I get too close they are going to snap. It’s unusual that they are back here as is. I rattle off a list, recounting the details of my own kills as I wiggle my eyebrows. “Cuts, up and down the body? Slashed throat, torn vocal cords? Cut up with medical precision? Like the later kills?”
Sterling’s lip twitches. “You never had that sort of precision.”
“Ah, but it’s not my victim-”
“She,” Jensen interjects, and I can hear the harsh bite in his tone. Dead or alive, Candace was a person, and when I glance his way I can see the fire burning in his eyes. He wants to make damn sure I remember that.