1. Chapter 1

1

Q uinn released a slow breath, but it had little effect on his rampant heart. He studied his palms, grimaced at the sparkling sweat, then wiped them aggressively on his thighs. The clock ticked ominously above the door, but when Quinn glanced down at the watch circling his wrist, he sighed.

Both devices were ticking the time away, but his watch was slower, out of rhythm. He adjusted the dial just to give his trembling hands something to do, then stared at his reflection in the small clock face. His blue eyes had a fearful quality to them, and his bottom lip had plumped from his obsessive nipping.

He tore his gaze away and lined up his papers for the twentieth time. "Get a grip."

Nervous perspiration prickled his skin, and he yanked at the collar of his shirt, hoping to waft cooler air down his body.

It didn't work.

Instead, his aftershave seeped towards his nose, and he sneezed.

"Bless you."

His heart squeezed hard in his chest, and he shot a startled look at the door.

The infamous Zane Black stood in the doorway of the office, with his head cocked and a slight smile on his lips. Zane was thirty years old, seven years Quinn's senior. He was bigger, and wider, than the mug shots in Quinn's folder. His black hair glistened, and his eyes were dark.

The notes said he had brown eyes, but Quinn couldn't see any hint of colour, only black.

They stared at each other for a few seconds.

Then Quinn's brain functioned, and he stood up and offered his remoistened hand. Zane stepped into the room, and their hands connected in a firm shake.

"I'm Doctor Quinn. Take a seat."

Quinn let go.

Zane looked down at his hand and swiped his thumb over his palm. "You're nervous."

Quinn licked his lips, thought about denying Zane's observation, but nodded instead.

"Yeah, I am. You're Zane Black. I would be stupid not to be nervous."

Zane frowned, glancing over his shoulder towards the corridor. "You've met others like me."

"No two criminals are alike."

"Serial killers."

"Well, technically you're not a serial killer."

Zane raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"You're a double murderer. Serial killers tend to kill several victims over a period. You…you killed your victims on the same night."

As if that made him any better.

"Huh… Maybe they just haven't found the other bodies yet."

A tightness gripped Quinn's throat, and he swallowed hard.

Zane rolled his eyes. "It was a joke."

"Not a particularly funny one."

"Why be so wary of me? There's worse killers in here, most of them you've spoken to."

And that was true, but the killers Quinn had spoken to had become famous after their crimes. Zane Black was known before. Every month, he'd been in the paper for one antic or another, flash and successful but slowly losing his way. He got worse after his father died. Some stories that came out about him made Quinn shudder, and that was before he was charged with murder.

"You're different, and that makes me nervous."

Zane nodded. "You're not a fan of surprises."

"No. I'm not."

Zane strolled further into the room and sat on the chair on the other side of the table. He didn't tuck himself under but slouched with his legs spread. Quinn waited a second, then lowered himself down on his chair.

Zane's white T-shirt stretched across his muscular chest, and his blue jeans were tight around his thighs. He was huge, muscular, and had a glint in his eye the other participants didn't have.

"What changed your mind?" Zane asked.

"Changed my mind?"

"Well…you started looking for participants here in Greenwood two weeks ago, and I expressed an interest and heard nothing…nothing until a week into the study."

"I had to check you were suitable."

"Suitable? Your criteria stated you wanted violent criminals who didn't dispute the charges brought against them. I'm of sound mind and haven't been diagnosed with any psychological conditions, and I'm willing to meet once a week with you for the next six months. I'm perfect for your study, yet you hesitated to include me."

"I have my reasons," Quinn said sternly, "Now—"

"I see you have my mug shot," Zane muttered. "The censored one."

Quinn's neck prickled, and the need to run reared up in his body. He knew exactly what Zane meant by censored .

The mug shot wasn't the first one the police took, but the second one after they'd cleaned the blood off his face.

"But you must've seen me in the papers before then, right?"

"Of course I have, you're famous."

"Son of billionaire Tony Black, and then I became famous myself." A coldness twisted Zane's face as he gazed at the ceiling. "The spoilt brat, the player, the alcoholic, the drug addict, the sexual deviant, and last but not least, the murderer."

Zane already had his fair share of labels from the press.

"Why did you volunteer for this study?" Quinn asked.

"Mackie told me about you. Said your chats were fun, and I wanted in."

Quinn widened his eyes. "You want to talk to me?"

Zane shrugged and fixed his dark eyes on Quinn's. "Maybe, maybe more than talk."

"Is that a threat?"

"Maybe it's a promise."

Quinn flashed a look at the big red button on the wall. He had interviewed six other high-security inmates but never felt tempted to use it. A camera in the corner of the room covered the desk, but he'd already been warned, although it was recording the whole time, there would be no one monitoring it live.

"Do you really think you could hit that button faster than I could stop you?"

The hairs on the back of Quinn's neck stood up, and he resisted the urge to shudder. He looked over at Zane, who smirked, darting looks from the button to Quinn and back again.

"You volunteered to take part in this study—"

"That's why I'm here."

"You're behaving in an inappropriate manner."

"I asked whether you think you could press the button first. It's not inappropriate. It's not a threat. It's a question."

"It's suggestive."

Zane raised his eyebrows. "Why? Is the red button not on the wall? Is the red button perhaps inside you instead? Maybe if it was, you'd want me to hit it."

Quinn stood up and gathered his papers. "We're done here."

"Wait, wait, wait," Zane said, leaning forward. "I'm sorry."

"You're wasting my time."

Zane held his hands up. "I was just messing with you. No more talk of red buttons. I promise."

"I could pick someone else for the study. I don't need you."

Zane's smug smile fell, and he lowered his gaze. "Look, I'm sorry. I didn't mean any offence. It gets boring here. I can't help teasing someone new."

Quinn placed a piece of paper down on the table and slid it across to Zane. "This is a consent form."

"You still have to get consent, even from the lowest of the low?"

"Of course. Your consent is vital."

Zane took the piece of paper and leaned back in his chair. His forehead wrinkled as he read through the sheet, then he peeked over the top of it at Quinn. "Aren't you going to sit back down?"

"I might not be able to hit that button quick enough, but I can run out of the door before you can get me."

Zane lowered the paper, shot a look at the table, then the doorway. "I think you're right, but if we're going to do this study together, it will be better if you sit, would it not?"

"Right now, I don't trust you."

Zane knocked his head back and laughed. "I'm the only one in here you can trust. One day you'll realise it. Now tell me about this study."

"It will take six months. The majority will be interviews where I'll ask about various topics—"

"What topics?"

"Family, adolescence. Work, relationships, and—and the crime committed."

"You want to know why I did it?"

Quinn frowned, then shook his head. "Not in so many words. The second part includes a few psychology experiments, some checklists, IQ tests, and then lastly an MRI scan."

"You want to look at my brain?"

"Yes."

A predatory smile spread across Zane's lips, and Quinn was thankful the door was open, ready for his fast getaway.

"Can I make a prediction?"

"If…if you want?"

Zane lifted his chin. "I'll have the sexiest brain."

The tension melted from Quinn, and he snorted. "What?"

"You heard me. You'll see my brain scan and think, whoa, that's a sexy brain. Sexiest one I've seen."

"I don't know about that…"

"Well, that's my prediction. What's yours?"

"Everything you need to know is in the consent form."

"Hmm." Zane narrowed his eyes. "What are you searching for in our brains? A reason? An excuse for what we've done?"

"Not a reason, or an excuse, but potentially, an…indicator."

Zane nodded slowly, then laid the paper flat on the table. "Where do I sign?"

Quinn reached into his top pocket, then held the pencil out hesitantly for Zane to take. He took it briskly and smiled. "Thank you, Doctor Quinn."

"Please, just Quinn. I will debrief you when the study is concluded."

Zane signed, and dated, then stared at the pencil in his grip. "It's funny; you could do the same amount of damage with a pencil as a knife."

He placed the pencil on the opposite edge of the table and leaned back in his chair. "Do you think you could grab the pencil before me?"

"What?"

"We're about an equal distance from the pencil. Do you think you can get it before me?"

Quinn darted a look at the corridor and prayed for footsteps but heard none. "I don't know. I don't need to know; that's not something—"

"Just indulge me."

"I don't want to—"

"You've already lost the game with that attitude."

Quinn shook his head. "I don't want to play a game."

Zane snorted and folded his arms. "Life is one big game. I'll count down from three."

"I'm not going to take it."

"Three…"

"Just leave it on the table."

Zane's eyes sparkled, and Quinn's nerves returned in full force. He didn't understand that look and glanced at the big red button.

"Two."

"Zane…"

"One."

Quinn flared his nostrils, then snatched for the pencil.

Zane moved lightning-fast and grabbed it first.

Quinn jerked to a halt. His breath caught.

Not only had Zane got hold of the potential weapon before him, but Quinn had moved away from the safety of the door.

The button was an equal distance from them, and Zane had already proved he had quicker reflexes. Quinn was just realising all that, but Zane smiled like he already knew, like it was indeed a game to him.

Zane held the pencil out for Quinn to take. "Here you are."

Quinn snatched it, then yanked the consent form out from under Zane's elbow.

"That'll be all for today," Quinn snapped.

Zane pouted in mock disappointment, then stood and dusted his hands together. "I can tell our little chats are going to be fun. You getting to know me, and me getting to know you."

"You don't need to know anything about me. There's nothing to tell anyway."

Zane studied Quinn intently. "Don't sell yourself short. Mousy-brown hair, big blue eyes, and smooth pale skin. I'm sure you'll keep my interest…"

He winked, then circled the table.

Quinn retreated. He was further from the door to freedom but closer to the big red button that called the heavies.

Zane passed by but paused in the doorway. "Oh, Quinn. If you ever want me to press your red button, you only have to ask."

He disappeared down the corridor, laughing to himself.

Once Zane's footsteps faded, Quinn collapsed into his chair and gripped his head. His heart slowed, and he breathed at his lap.

"Knock, knock," came a chirpy voice from the doorway.

Quinn shot a look at the door and offered Cleo a weak smile. She grinned back, and the skin around her eyes wrinkled. She held up two polystyrene cups filled with the most bitter-tasting coffee to grace the earth. Out of all the prison officers, she had responded to Quinn with the most enthusiasm, fascinated by his study. The rest of them acted like he didn't exist, and he was lucky if he got a grunt from them.

"I saw Will letting Zane through the gate. Thought you could do with a top-up."

"I'm going to need more than a coffee."

She clacked her tongue and stepped inside. "That bad?"

"How—how do you handle working here every day?"

Cleo placed the coffees on the table and settled on Zane's chair. "I've got used to it."

"It's taken such a long time to get this study approved, so much stress and pressure, that now I'm here, it feels like a relief to be talking to violent criminals. I was getting comfortable, then Zane walked in, and it was like I was a kid pitted against the school bully on the first day of term."

"That's a good thing. You should never start to feel comfortable here." Cleo released her blonde hair from her ponytail and fluffed the strands. She popped the top button of her white shirt and tugged her tie down an inch. "So what did he say?"

"It was his…manner more than anything."

"He's clever, really clever."

Quinn sighed and rested his hand on Zane's file. "A bloody genius, from what I've read. He passed university with honours, not a mark wrong."

"Yeah, the press thought his dad had something to do with that."

"What do you think?"

"He really is that clever, but more than that. He knows things. He likes to play mind games. He stares straight into your soul and can see your deepest, darkest secrets."

Quinn pinched the top of his nose. "The murders? Do you believe his side of it?"

"I'm not a doctor or a detective"—she smiled weakly—"or a psychologist."

"But do you believe he can't remember doing it? He blacked out and doesn't remember where he hid the bodies or what exactly went down that night."

"No history of blackouts before or after that night, and his memory is scarily accurate about everything that happens here."

"He's lying then…"

Cleo leaned over the table. "I think he knows exactly what he did that night, and by telling everyone he can't remember, he holds on to that power. He keeps that moment as his and no one else's. It's the one thing he's kept from being revealed, broadcast to the world by the press. It's his stand against that. His…mutiny. I thought that was common in serial killers?"

"He's not a serial killer."

"Um. Yes, he is."

"A serial killer kills victims over—you know what, it doesn't matter. What he did is just as bad."

Quinn dropped his gaze to Zane's swirly signature on the consent form.

"He's a nice guy, though," Cleo murmured.

Quinn shot her a disbelieving look, and she flapped her hand in the space between them.

"I mean, he's well-mannered, charming. He's been here two years, and he doesn't start any fights, he doesn't argue, he does as he's told and barely complains when we have to lock him in his cell for days at a time. He's a model prisoner. I wish they all behaved like him."

"I found him unnerving…"

"Maybe a little, but he's easy on the eye too, which is a bonus."

Quinn's jaw dropped. "You're a prison officer. You can't say that."

"Looks like I just did."

"It's not…right."

"Oh come on, Quinn, before this, when he was in the papers, you must've thought he was hot."

Quinn pressed his lips into a firm line.

Cleo winked at him. "Thought so…"

"I didn't say anything."

"You didn't have to. So…you going to tell me about this study yet?"

"I work through a checklist I've created based on other criminal psychologists' research with each participant. If they score high enough, then we continue to the other part of the study."

"What's the checklist testing for?"

Quinn opened his mouth to reply, then snapped it shut. "I don't want to say."

"You don't trust me?"

"I just don't want anyone to overhear. It could affect the participants' behaviour and the study."

Cleo squinted at him. "You think I'm a gossip?"

"No, I want to be careful, that's all."

"Fine."

Quinn winced at the sour expression on her face. He sipped his coffee, only to recoil and splutter. "What the hell?"

Cleo brightened again. "A shot of whisky to perk you up."

"A shot? I think my eyes are bleeding."

"Don't be so dramatic. I only put a few drops in yours, not like mine."

She lifted the lid on her cup and flashed Quinn a look at the amber liquid inside. He glared at her, but she just laughed, then shrugged.

"My shift ended ten minutes ago, and it's a Friday."

Quinn brushed his hand through his hair and grimaced at the tackiness. The clamminess to his skin had lessened, but there was no hiding his rumpled collar or the patches of sweat under his arms.

"Have you got anything planned this weekend?" Quinn asked.

"Out Saturday night, pub, and club. You can come if you want?"

Something twisted in Quinn's gut. He forced a smile. "Thanks for the invite, but I'll be fine at home."

"Why be fine when you can have fun?"

"Maybe next time," Quinn said through his fake smile. It began to twitch, and he looked away.

He decided not to tell Cleo he was going to spend his weekend at home curled up in bed, spinning his mobile in his fingers, too nervous to make the dreaded call, and still nursing a heart that was as broken as when it first shattered three weeks ago.

That was too personal to share with a woman he'd only known for two weeks.

"I—I need the weekend to recover after those ten minutes with Zane." He snorted. "I actually feel more wrinkled and can sense the grey hairs poking through my scalp."

"Well, at that rate, you'll probably be dead by the time these six months are up."

She laughed and reached over to squeeze his shoulder.

Quinn smiled at her. "Now there's something to hope for…"

Cleo raised her cup.

Quinn did the same.

Instead of a clink of glass, there was the squeak of polystyrene as their drinks met in the air.

The study, the prison, the participants, as morbid and terrifying as it was, were all Quinn had left, and he needed the distraction to get from one day to the next.