“Go to hell,” he growled.
“You don’t have a pithy or clever quip now that the tables have turned?” She wagged a finger at him. “Don’t be a sore loser. You’ll have plenty of time to get used to your new position in the world. I predict you’ll become more tractable eventually.”
He jumped to his feet. “I won’t become more tractable! I won’t ever be one of your guinea pigs! The research you do here is ridiculous! A waste of time!”
“Perhaps, but we have to make the effort. Anyway, you will volunteer soon enough.”
“You can’t say that, you don’t know anything about me.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. I know more about you than anyone else, which is why I can also predict that boredom will soon replace me as your greatest enemy.”
“Forget it,” he insisted. “You’re delusional.”
“We’ll see.” She started for the door but turned back at the last moment. “Oh, and in case you’d like to congratulate me”—she smoothed a hand over her belly—“I just learned that I’m expecting Amarok’s baby. I plan to tell him tonight.”
She’d managed to surprise him. She could tell by the expression on his face. “You can still have a child? After everything I did to you?”
“Apparently so,” she said with a smile.
Read on for an excerpt from Brenda Novak’s next Evelyn Talbot book
BLINDSPOT
Coming soon from St. Martin’s Paperbacks
1
Dr. Evelyn Talbot sat trembling on a cold cement floor, blinking into pure darkness. No matter how hard she strained her eyes, she couldn’t see so much as a glimmer of light, had no idea of the dimensions of the room where she’d been tossed, or who’d thrown her in it before locking and bolting the door.
Considering all the psychopaths she’d studied over the years, she was afraid to find out.
She had to calm down, she told herself. If she didn’t, she wouldn’t have the presence of mind, or the physical strength, to save her own life. She had to manage her fear and remember everything she’d learned as a criminal psychiatrist who’d spent the past twenty years studying serial killers, because, in this moment, her education was the only weapon she had.
She removed the suit jacket she was wearing over a matching navy blue dress and rubbed the arm she’d landed on to see if it might be broken. Whoever had grabbed her as she was getting out of the car at her own house had attacked her without warning. He’d come up from behind, thrown a bag over her head, hauled her off her feet and shoved her into the back of a van. Before she could even reach up to remove the bag, she’d felt a knee in her spine as someone held her facedown while tying her hands behind her. Then the door had slammed shut and she’d heard an engine rev and tires squeal as she was launched to one side with the motion of the vehicle.
She didn’t believe her arm was broken, just bruised or sprained and, fortunately, the rope that’d been used to tie her up had been cut off as she was tossed into this room, so she could feel her hands. Until this moment, she hadn’t realized that her ankle was tender too. She must’ve rolled it in the brief scuffle before she’d been thrown in the van. But that was the extent of her injuries. For now …
Who’d abducted her? She hadn’t caught a glimpse of her attacker, but something about him had seemed familiar. Why?
Her mind sifted through the dangerous men she’d studied since graduating from college, but she couldn’t even venture a guess. It was frightening not to know what she was up against. It was even more frightening to acknowledge that no one else would have any clue where she was—or even that she’d been taken—least of all Sergeant Benjamin Murphy, Hilltop’s only police presence and the man she loved. It was summer in Alaska, that brief period where the days lengthened to almost twenty hours and tourists came from all over the world to enjoy the natural beauty of the last frontier. She and Amarok—Inuit for “wolf” and what the locals had been calling him since he was in junior high—had finally relaxed and begun to believe that the inherent danger Evelyn had faced for so long, until Jasper Moore had been caught and imprisoned six months ago, was over. They’d been so sure of it they’d been planning their wedding. She was supposed to meet Amarok at the Moosehead today—possibly right now; she’d lost track of time—to talk about the food they wanted to serve. They were going to be married in a small ceremony in Alaska, where he’d been born and raised, the first week of July. Then, after the birth of their baby, they were going to fly to Boston, where she’d grown up, for a second reception in the fall.
Struggling to even out her breathing and slow the pounding of her heart, she hugged her knees tighter to her chest—as much as her swollen stomach would allow. If the person who’d kidnapped her was one of the psychopaths she’d worked with, she had some inkling what to expect. He was probably someone who was easily threatened. Someone who lived to dominate others. Someone who had to win no matter what the cost. Someone who enjoyed torture and/or killing.
She could go on, ticking off the traits listed on the PCL-R, which was what Dr. Robert Hare had created to help diagnose someone as psychopathic. She knew what such people had in common. The real question was: Could she tolerate what he had in store for her? Hold him off long enough to get away?
She had to. If she wanted to live, if she wanted the unborn child she carried to survive, she had to be both strong and smart. But her panic and fear were exacerbated by the most debilitating memories. This wasn’t the first time she’d been victimized. She’d been only sixteen when her boyfriend, Golden Boy Jasper Moore, had killed her best friends and tried to kill her. It was a miracle she’d managed to drag her broken and bruised body from the shack where he’d left her after torturing her for three days. Had she been any less determined to survive, she wouldn’t have made it.
That experience was the reason she’d decided to fight back with knowledge, to make the study of such individuals her life’s work. Jasper had been an only child who came from a good family. His wealthy parents had doted on him. There’d been no abuse or deprivation in his past, nothing one would think necessary to “create” such a monster. That was the most puzzling part of the equation and the reason she’d established Hanover House, the first prison of its kind. Located in a town of only five hundred people an hour outside of Anchorage, it housed over three hundred inmates, including one hundred and ten of the worst serial killers in America. According to some estimates, psychopaths made up almost 4 percent of the general population and over 20 percent of America’s prison populations, so someone had to figure out a way to treat the untreatable.
Unfortunately, it was a dangerous job.
She had a terrible feeling she was about to be reminded just how dangerous.
Tilting her head back, she drew in a deep, calming breath as she tried to estimate the length of time she’d been in the van so she could attempt to determine where she might be in relation to Hilltop. Had her kidnapper driven an hour? Longer?
It was tough to say. Shock and fear—not to mention disorientation—made it almost impossible to come up with an accurate estimate. Ten minutes in such a situation felt like ten hours. Her captor could’ve taken her to a remote cabin in the middle of the wilderness on the far side of Hilltop. After all, there was no snow on the ground right now, nothing to make those mountain roads impassable. Or he could’ve taken her to Anchorage or even some smaller town or community where it would be easier to get groceries and other necessities.