10

Crimson. Maroon. Vermilion.

My eyes bore into the shades of red in the huge oil painting in front of me, but my brain isn't really processing the image.

I'mtoo distracted for that.

I'mat the opening of the Modern ArtGallery'sinaugural exhibition downtown. Around me is a circle of artists, critics, and curators. Idon'tfit in with these people by birth.But I fought my way to be here,foughtto build a business of my own andtoget their respect.

This is the crowdI'veslotted myself into in Brookhaven. The wealthy, the artistic, the elite.I'mthe successful therapist, not the broken, penniless runaway I was thirteen years ago.

I have the money, the degrees, the respect.

I should be enjoying this.

But instead, I can't stop thinking about last night.

Something strange happened, I know that. But everything is a hazy blur of fog. I remember that feeling washing over me, like an eclipse blocking out the sun. I remember feeling panic, as if I was on the edge of something terrible happening.

But then it all goes dark. I woke up thenext morninginmybed as if nothing had happened. I suppose I must have just fallen back asleep. But something is tugging at my memory, telling methere'smore.

"Well, it's all thanks to you, Jackson."

The sound of my name drags me out of my reverie.

Liza Palmer is smiling across the circle at me.She'sone of thecity'smost talented youngartists,whose workI'velong admired. Her flowing orange dress glimmers against her skin.

"Not at all,"I reply, forcing a smile.

"Don't be humble," Liza says. "You're one of the gallery's main sponsors. Without your donation, we wouldn't have the chance to exhibit here."

I'mno artistmyself, but I like to use the money I make from my practice to fund promising new talent.

One of the critics murmurs in agreement."It'sa beautiful space."

An older man in glasses steps into the circle, frowning. I recognize him as a board member ofBrookhaven'sclassical art gallery."A little morbid,don'tyou think?Putting an exhibition space in an old mental asylum?"

Liza clears her throat."The proper term is psychiatric hospital, I believe.Isn'tthat right, Dr Keller?"

I nod."The building was going to be torn down otherwise. And this exhibition is a fitting way to honor its past."

Art of the Psyche.That'sthe theme of this inaugural exhibition.

The board member scowls."It has a sort of unsettling atmosphere,doesn'tit?"

"Iwon'targue with that,"I reply."The psychiatric field has come a long way in how we treat those who suffer with mental illness. But this building has seen it all."

People suffered here. I can feel it. But I don't say that out loud.

The dark grandeur of the old hospital still lingers in its architecture. The vaulted ceilings and stone archways reveal its gothic bones. But nowit'sbeen transformed into an elegant, ethereal space.

The well-dressed members of the circle smile at me. This is whatI'veworked to achieve. It should feel satisfying.I'vebuilt a business on helping peopleandI donate my wealth to developing artists. I have a standing in thiscity'supper echelon.

Butsuddenlyit feels hollow. And the weight of dreadis still hangingat the back of my mind.

"Sorry to steal Dr Keller away, but I want to show him my new piece. I thinkhe'llparticularly enjoy it. Excuse us."Liza smiles, jerking her head toward the next room.

I follow her through the doorway into a dimly lit room. Her piece is mounted alone on the exposed brick of the wall.It'shuge; the white canvas spans the whole length of the room. Black paint is splattered like blood in swirling shapes.

"Couldn'twait for you to see this one,"Liza says."I studied all this psychological symbolism and optical illusion art for it. It was a bitch to construct, actually. Step back and tell me what your brain thinksyou'reseeing."

I nod, taking a few steps back. It clicks.

"It's a Rorschach test," I murmur.

She giggles. "Don't speak, just look."

It'sa twisted mass of blackink,blown up to ahugesize. The patterns are intricate. These inkblot projection tests were used at a time before even Henrik began studying psychology.

I breathe out, letting my vision relax in the half-darkness.

Maybe my mind is still playing tricks on me. Because out of the inky black swirls, I see a face emerge.Silky blackhair, the slight curve ofhernose,gently poutylips.

Ava Cain.

Not just her face. I see herbody,materializing into life in front of me. The curve of her neck as she looks up at me. I feel my cock tightens as I realizeshe'snaked. Her breasts are exposed.There'sa faint smile playing on herfulllips. Her legs seem to part before me.

Heat floods my body like a volcano bursting into life, and I feel the tug of that eclipse-like sensation once again.

A voice whispers at the back of my head.

Look at how she shows off herself for me.Don'tyou want that?Don'tyou want to know how goodshe'sgoing to feel? That perfect pussy. It should be all fucking mine.

"What do you see, Dr Keller?"Liza asks. Her voice sounds far away.

My words are low and hungry when I hear them leave my mouth.

"Something that belongs to me."

Buzz.

I feel the silent vibration of my phone in my suit pocket. The sensation snaps me back to my sensesandthe vision of Ava dissipates.

"My apologies, Liza. Please excuse me."I turn away, taking a deep breath to steady myself before I answer the call."Captain Hawkins, how are you?"

Hawkins'voice sounds strained."No time for small talk, Dr Keller. I hate to ask this of you again, but…"

"Ah.You'relooking for assistance on another case."

"Yes. Iwouldn'task again if itwasn'tserious and high profileas all hell. We found the body earlier today, but itwon'tbe long before this hits the news."

"Your trained forensic psychologistscan'thelp you with this? I need to remind you again, Captain, thisisn'tmyarea ofexpertise."

There'sa moment of silence before his voice lowers."I knowit"snot your specialty, butyou"vegot a knack for it that beats those forensic shrinksany day. I still remember how you helped me on the other cases.This'llbe off the books, of course.I'llget back to you in a few days when I have the file ready for you togo over. If you agree to this, that is."

My resolve teeters. I feel a pull of curiosity toward whateverhe'sasking me to look at. Butisn'tthat exactly why I should stay away?I'mtrying to resist whatever dark compulsion has been giving me these violent dreams at night.That'swhyI'mtrying out therapy techniques onmyself,to figure it out and resolve it.

I glance back at Liza's Rorschach painting.

Ava'sbeautiful face flickers for a split second before my eyes, and I feel the lick of dark flames in my chest.

Temptation gets the better of me.

"Captain," I reply. "My answer is yes."

***

Later in the evening, I unlock the door to my basement, flicking the light on. The setup is exactly where I left it.

If I were an artist, this would be my studio. ButI'vebuilt a different sort of creation down here out of sight.

This is what Henrik is worried about me messing around with. But nothing else has worked to uncover my past, soI'mtaking it into my own hands.

The room is as clean and well-maintained as the rest of my home, butit'ssparse and dimly lit. A solitary, sturdy wooden chair sits a few yards opposite a plain white screen. In front of this is a table holding carefully calibrated LED light. Wires snake across the floor, connecting the light to a gently humming laptopnext tothe chair. The air is infused with the faint scent of calming incense.

I sit down, hesitating for a moment.There'sa flash of resistance; it always comes before I begin this ritual.

Breathe, Jackson.

I press the buttonandthe sequence begins.

A low, ambient hum vibrates through the room, resonating from concealed speakers. The light flicks on and begins to pulsate in a slow rhythm. Its warm glow slowly turns colder andbrighter,until each flash is nearly blinding.

Flash.

Sounds to calm the mind. Incense to heighten the senses. Lights pulsate in rhythm to induce a hypnotic effect. I developed this technique usingall the thingstraditionalist Henrikdoesn'tapproveof. Hypnosis. Light therapy. Regression therapy.

Just like Liza's art, I've pulled threads from different fields to weave something new.

Something that I hope will help merememberuncover the mysteries of my pastandhelp me bury the darkness for good.

Flash.

The light blazes into life for a split second and dies again, leaving a ghost of its shape in my vision.

Flash.

White sears across my eyes. But this time,that'snot all. This timeanotherimage swallows up my vision.

Blood on my hands.

Where did this come from?

Flash.

The hum of white noise from the speakers is roaring in my ears.

Another image appears. DrBlackwood'sface emerging out of the darkness.

"Hold still, Jackson."

His hands breaking my body, piece by piece. His knife along my knuckles.

Flash.

The image shimmers and transforms.

Ava Cain appears before my vision.She'ssitting opposite me in my office,a defensive expression on her face.There'sthe slightest crack of vulnerability in the shield she puts up to the world.

How soft she is beneath it.

How breakable.

Flash.

Ava'sbody nakedis suddenly in front of me.There'sa hand fixed around her neck, wearing thick black leather gloves.

I tense my fingers on instinct, and she softly moans.It's my hand.I'mthe one holding her.

If I just tighten my fingers a little more, she'll be begging.

I need to fucking claim her body.

Flash.

The burst of light is cut short.It'snot until my vision clears that I realizeI'veslammed my handdownon the stop button.

My heart is beating hard in my chest.

This is supposed to help me understand my past and reach some peace.

Butsuddenlyit feels as ifI'llnever know peace again now that Ava Cain is trapped inside my head.