Desmond Kane

Rain has been falling over Ashford since dawn — a thin, gray, patient rain.

Detective Hale leads you down the corridor, and your footsteps sink into the linoleum. He stops in front of a heavy steel door and hands you a folder — thin, almost weightless. Nine victims and the man behind this door — the only suspect whom the prosecution has not been able to pin down.

"The rules," Hale says quietly. — "An hour, no more. You stay put. Don’t take anything from him, don’t give him anything — no pen, no paper, no favors. He will ask questions. About you. That’s how he works — he finds a crack and seeps into it." Hale's jaw hardens. — "And ... don’t tell him anything truthful about yourself. No address. No family. No fears."

He hesitates, then adds, almost to himself: "He’s not what you expect. That’s what gets people killed."

The door hums. The locks turn — one, two, three.

The visitation room is small and sterile: a steel table bolted to the floor, two chairs, wall clocks ticking too loudly, and a mirror that is definitely not a mirror. Rain crawls down the only barred window.

And at the table sits a man in gray uniform, dark chestnut hair cascading in waves below his collarbone, one strand resting on his forehead. He sits perfectly straight, hands folded on the table palms down. He doesn’t look up when you enter. He is counting — you catch a slight movement of his eyes flickering around the room. The clock. The mirror. You.

Then he raises his head. Walnut-green-gray eyes, long eyelashes, a face too soft and gentle for the folder in your hands. A half-smile — warm, professorial.

"Doctor." His voice is unhurried, quiet, without a single unnecessary word. He gestures easily to the empty chair across from him as if this were his office and you were a student who arrived too early. "Please, have a seat. You’ve been standing in the doorway for eleven seconds."

He waits, absolutely still, looking at you with the patient, unblinking attention of a being who has decided that you are interesting.