Page 53 of Brainwashed

My head tilts to the side while I watch him. His irises are a slate gray, vibrant in such a typically muted color. And he clearly has no problem with eye contact. He’s the only person I’ve ever met who lets his gaze stick with mine for minutes on end. Though he usually breaks first.

“I promise,” I state firmly.

He blinks at me a few times in silence. Then he nods, seemingly accepting my assurance.

Good.

Picking up my phone, I press record and introduce myself with the date and time, placing it down on the table. Folding my hands in my lap, I watch Felix for a moment, taking in his appearance. He doesn’t look as exhausted as he did the first time I saw him, and I think it’s because they’ve dialed back on the experiments they were doing to make time for our sessions. Still, there are subtle dark circles beneath his eyes, and his chestnut brown hair is tousled about. He’s clean shaven, no hint of stubble lingering on the line of his sharp jaw.

Felix’s file has told meeverythingabout his stay here in Alabaster Pen, including how often his face is shaved, when he’s allowed showers, where his things are kept. I even have the prescription information for his glasses, and the brand name of the frames he likes. Those thick black ones that make him look like Buddy Holly.

I remember the first time I saw a picture of him in the papers. I don’t smile a lot…Okay, it actually never happens.I just haven’t found many things to smile or laugh at, because life isn’t funny.But I swear to God, when I saw the picture of the twenty-year-old who was responsible for all of those gruesome murders, I couldn’t help the grin that stretched uncontrollably on my lips, accompanied by a tiny chuckle.

He looksnothinglike what you’d expect from a brutal murderer, which just goes to show, you never know who could be chopping up bodies. There’s a reason they saylooks are deceiving, and Felix Darcey’s looks are the ultimate camouflage.

Yesterday, as he told me about how he’s felt invisible all his life, I couldn’t help but feel as though his looks have helped him fly under the radar.I mean, come on…He’s a white guy of ordinary height and weight. Brown hair. No distinguishing marks, tattoos, or piercings. Add his often introverted, shy and awkward personality to the mix and it’s no wonder he’s been overlooked all his life.

But even more than that, over the course of my first couple of meetings with Felix, I remember thinking that hisquietnesswas likely what kept him in the shadows, more than his physical appearance. Because he is a very good-looking man. Objectively.

His features are symmetrical, complexion smooth, curious eyes of a sort of brilliant shade not necessarily hidden behind those glasses, but more framed by them. Pointed nose, sloped, full lips, all angles and exceptional curves. From what I can tell, he’s in great shape beneath the oversized shirt and washed-out prison jumpsuit pants.

I think it’s clear. Felix Darcey isn’t homely or simple. He’s only able toactthat way to get what he wants.

When he begins to shift in his seat, I realize that the silence is getting to him. Felix is very introspective. He’s not a chatterbox by any means. But I’ve also found that he has a certain level of expectancy from me. I’m guessing he was informed or somehow found out I was coming to work with him, and now it’s as if he’s eager for it.

The feeling is mutual.

“Felix,” I begin, settling into my chair. “I want you to tell me about your first kill.”

His eyes round, but he does a great job of covering up what was clearly a knee-jerk emotional response. It’s exactly the thread I want to pull at after witnessing his reactions to the photos of his victims the other day, in the exam room. He seemed to have different feelings about all of them. Which fuckingfascinatesme.

“Okay,” he says softly, his fingers digging into the velvet couch beneath him. “What do you want to know about it?”

“Tell me his name.” I speak quietly, though it’s an indignant command.

Felix narrows his slate gaze at me. “You know his name.” My shoulder lifts in a careless shrug, to which he sighs out a frustrated breath. “Emmanuel Pedroia. He was my first.”

I nod. “Was he the first person youwantedto kill?”

“No.” He shakes his head, then swallows visibly. “I’m sure I wanted to kill people before him. But the first person I remember actively wanting to strangle to death was Isaac.”

“Isaac Remillard?” I ask, recalling the notes from his file. “Your college roommate?”

He nods. “Yea. He was my…” He stops abruptly and closes his eyes, shaking his head briefly. “I had a crush on him. And I know he wanted me back… But he wouldn’t admit it, like the stubborn bitch he is.”

“And that made you want to kill him?” I ask carefully.

He’s quiet for a moment. “No… I don’t think so. I mean, maybe? I think I wanted to kill him because I wanted to kill him. I’m not sure there’s a reason…”

“Felix.” I give him a pointed look. “There’s always a reason.”

His eyes widen at me, and an insecurity flashes in them. “But you said… I thought you said I was born this way.”

“Yes, I believe that.” My head bobs subtly. “But that doesn’t mean you’re going to just slaughter any old person for the hell of it. Youchoseeach of your victims… Hand-picked them like a ripe piece of fruit you wanted to devour.”

He swallows again, this time a more deliberate movement. His Adam’s apple slides in his throat, and it reminds me of my own throat. I have to force my hand not to move up to the scars.

“What stopped you from killing Isaac?” I ask quickly, moving on.