McKinley and I lock gazes, and from his, I get the message: You’ve got a live one in there.
Adam looks at the door. “But we haven’t even had a chance to see the patient’s files yet.”
“You’ll get full access to them,” Jeremy says. “For now, I’ve provided most of what you’ll need.”
“And the rest?”
A guttural yowl, then the sound of rapid-fire chain rattling. Then a bed skidding and squealing along the floor, followed by more screams.
“It’s all waiting for you in there,” Jeremy says.
He turns and walks away.
2
Evan McKinley peers through the window and into the room, then flashes what might be a mild smirk . . . or maybe I’m just imagining it. He takes a key ring from his uniform belt, unlocks the door, and motions for us to enter.
The moment we step inside, my focus locks onto Donny Ray Smith, but I’m still not quite sure what I’m seeing. I was expecting a monster; instead, this guy looks like he was sent here by Central Casting rather than by another psychiatric hospital. It would appear he wandered onto the wrong set, though, because our new patient in no way fits the role of a serial killer. Striking is the word of the day, and he owns it. With his well-defined physique, jet-black hair, and sculpted jawline, Donny Ray Smith could have leaped from the page of an Abercrombie ad.
A child killer? He’s nothing more than a kid himself.
Barely into his twenties, is my guess.
Lying in bed, Donny Ray blinks a few times, then looks down at himself to examine the Posey Net that covers his entire body. Arms, neck, and legs pulled through the openings. Ankles and wrists secured with loop straps. He’s sweating, trembling with fear.
Refusing to look at us.
Adam says nothing, but I instantly sense he isn’t buying into Donny Ray’s fright—not that I am, either. Experience has taught me that psychopaths are quick-change artists who can conform to any shape imaginable. I don’t yet know if that’s what we’re dealing with here, but I’m mindful of the possibility.
Adam and I step forward, and Donny Ray lurches back against the bed, hands clenching the guardrails, biceps flexing, breaths speeding. His restraints clatter; perspiration slides from sodden bangs down the bridge of his nose.
“Why am I being restrained?” he shouts through pallid lips, and I hear his thick southern drawl.
“You’ve been deemed a danger to yourself and others,” I explain.
Donny Ray releases an angry howl and tries to jerk himself free; the bed rattles, squeaks, and shimmies. Recognizing his efforts as futile, he lets out a tiny, helpless moan.
“You’re the behavioral guy,” Adam mutters to me. “Have at it.”
“It’s okay,” I tell Donny Ray Smith, keeping my body still and my voice level. “Nobody’s here to cause you any harm.”
A low and inarticulate plea escapes through chattering teeth.
I wait in silence and watch him, my passivity allowing an opportunity for trust. A few moments later, his breath slows and his jaw relaxes, but he still refuses to look at us.
I study him for a few seconds longer, then move closer. Donny Ray reacts instantly, shooting his terrified gaze directly at me, and now I’m the one who’s startled. But not by his reaction—it’s his eyes, blue, bright, but nearly colorless, perhaps the palest I’ve ever seen.
Wait a minute.
Because . . .
I know those eyes.
Or do I? I’m not sure. For the life of me, I can’t place them. I examine his other features, but . . . I’ve got nothing, and now I’m more unsettled because this isn’t a face I’d soon forget.
And right now, that’s not important.
So I try to banish my speculations; but my suspicions may not be unfounded because now Donny Ray Smith is also searching my eyes in a manner that suggests recognition mixed with curious confusion. I study his other features.
A former patient, maybe?
“I’m Dr. Kellan,” I move on, still scrutinizing his face as I motion Adam forward, “and this is Dr. Wiley. We’ll be working together. I’m a psychologist and he’s a neurol—”
“You have to take me out of here!” Donny Ray blurts, those eyes now ablaze and begging.
“I need you to try and calm down,” I say. “Do you think you can do that for me?”
A slow nod. A vulnerable expression.
Adam’s phone rings, and Donny Ray immediately jerks back. I raise a hand of assurance.
He settles.
“Sorry,” Adam says. He checks the screen, silences his phone, then with a nod, encourages me to continue.
Still mindful of my new patient’s overall appearance, I say, “I need to ask you a few questions.”
Donny Ray is compliant but fearful.
“Do you know where we are?”
“We’re at Loveland.”
“Do you understand why you’re here?”
“Please!” he shouts. “Help me!”
“We’re going to find the truth. Whether that helps you or not remains to be seen. Are you able to tell me your name?”
“But you already know all this! What does it have to do with—?”
“I need your name,” I say, this time as a firm mandate.
“Yeah . . .” he surrenders. “Okay. It’s Donny Ray Smith.”
“What’s your date of birth?”
“December fourteenth, nineteen ninety-two.”
“Can you tell me where you were born?”
“Real, Texas. Why are you doing this to me?”
I circle back to the question he failed to answer. “Do you understand why you’re here?”
Donny Ray looks down at his bound hands, looks up, and his expression is markedly changed—something like nervous confusion diluted by distress. “I think . . . I mean . . . I just don’t know anymore. They said . . .” His voice falters. “They say I killed that little girl.”
Careful to keep my manner nonreactive, I ask, “And did you?”