2. Chapter 2

2

Z ane brought the grand total of participants up to seven.

Seven of the most feared men in the country under one roof.

Greenwood Prison.

The perimeter fence stretched above, and the coils of razor-sharp wire made Quinn shudder. Behind the fences, there were walls, thick and unyielding, and then came the gates.

The locks clunked and snapped shut.

They led to walkways of concrete that echoed each footstep into the surrounding darkness. Another gate, another corridor, then through a white door.

The prison aesthetics gave way to a hospital-style setting. There were long white corridors with decorative art on the walls. A combination of bleach and antiseptic was a physical taste in the air. The ceilings were high, and bright lights lit the area; there were no ghostly shadows, crude graffiti, or desolate rooms. The inmates that Quinn saw through the bars greeted him and waved. They weren't the frothing-at-the-mouth, screaming inmates he had anticipated, and in some ways, that was worse.

Some of the friendliest men had committed the worst crimes. Quinn looked at the notes and files before glancing up at the man opposite, unable to believe the well-mannered man took lives on a whim.

Quinn's office was halfway down the long corridor. Prisoners were escorted to the gate at the end of the corridor, and the officer waited until the sessions were done, then took them back.

The corridor was monitored, and guards regularly walked back and forth, but Quinn's stomach sloshed with unease at the thought of being a few metres away from help, especially after Zane had demonstrated his quick reflexes.

But that was Zane, and the prisoner in front of Quinn was Mackie.

Mackie didn't look like a man capable of murder. He was bald, plump, and Quinn always heard his wheezing before he saw him in the doorway. The tips of his fingers were stained black from his smoking addiction, and his nails were brittle. He often tore them off while he talked and left them behind on the floor.

Despite the nail-picking habit and the occasional coughing fit, Quinn didn't mind him.

Mackie was so eager to answer questions he reminded Quinn of a Labrador. He bobbed up and down in his chair and often started answering before Quinn had finished talking. Cleo told him Mackie counted down the hours to their next meetings and smiled solidly for two days after each one.

Quinn prayed for more participants like Mackie.

He was already seated behind the table when Quinn arrived and watched expectantly as he set out his papers on the desk and took his seat.

Quinn wasn't allowed his laptop, or his phone and both were safely locked away in reception.

They did allow him a modern audio recorder to tape the sessions, and he pulled his pencil from his top shirt pocket to make notes.

Note taking had become habitual since university, and he was one of the rare few students that enjoyed it.

"What are we doing today, Doctor Quinn?"

"Quinn," he reminded. "And I'm going to ask you about your family, particularly your relationship with your parents. If at any time you don't want to answer or you'd prefer I'd change the subject—"

"My mum died when I was little."

Mackie nodded so fast he blurred, and Quinn blinked to readjust. He clutched his pencil tighter, pressing it to the paper.

"That must've been traumatic."

"I was little. I don't remember."

"Did you ask your dad about her?"

Mackie frowned and eyed Quinn like he had said something complex. "Why would I?"

"To learn about her."

"Why? She's dead. Nothing worth knowing if she's dead."

"So you were brought up by your dad?"

"Yeah." Mackie nodded. "He could be quite a hard man. Keen on punishment."

"And how did he punish you?"

Mackie grinned and tugged up the sleeve of his T-shirt. Pale circles covered his wide biceps, and he stroked them tenderly. "He put his cigarettes out on me."

Quinn counted seventeen circles, then grew nauseous and stopped.

"They're not all bad," Mackie said quickly.

"What do you mean?"

"The scars. When I was a kid, I used to play dot-to-dot and colour in the sections."

"I used to do that with the moles on my arm," Quinn whispered.

Mackie nodded eagerly. "See, you understand. They were fun sometimes."

Quinn gestured to Mackie's arm. "Did he do one every time you misbehaved?"

"Yeah, he told me it was for my own good. Teaching me."

"What did he count as misbehaviour?"

"Being loud. Breaking something. Not eating all my food."

"Not eating food?"

"He worked hard to put it on the table, and if I didn't eat it all, he would punish me for it." A big smile spread Mackie's lips, and he rubbed his large stomach. "Worked, I don't leave a scrap on my plate, and I haven't since I was a teenager."

"Do you believe his punishments were fair?"

Mackie rolled his sleeve down and shrugged. "Punishment is fair when it's the same for everyone."

"And did your dad punish others the same way?"

"No, only me."

"The punishment wasn't fair," Quinn concluded.

Mackie nodded. "No, it wasn't. But I got my revenge on him in the end when I—"

"We're not going to talk about that today." Quinn glanced down at his notes and cleared his throat.

"Right." Mackie wrung his hands together. "Childhood…"

"Yes, tell me what you can remember…"

Mackie did not have the nicest of childhoods. His father was abusive, verbally and physically. He drank more nights than he didn't and went through women as fast as his bottles of whisky. They didn't stay around for long, and when they left, Mackie's father blamed him and would belt him. Mackie didn't break down or look sad at any point during the hour session; in fact, he looked elated to be sharing stories of his childhood, no matter how disturbing Quinn found them.

After the hour ended, Mackie thanked Quinn over and over and backed out of the room blushing. Quinn jotted down a few key notes but stilled when he felt the weight of someone's gaze.

Mackie stood in the doorway.

He was no longer smiling but picking at the wooden frame in an obsessive manner. His nails were cracked, chipping more than the wood.

"Something wrong? Quinn asked, giving him an encouraging smile.

"You're going to be talking to Zane."

Quinn nodded. "He volunteered, same as you."

"There's something… There's something not right about him. You shouldn't trust him."

Quinn stuttered, thinking of a suitable reply but came up with nothing.

"I see how he is with the prison officers."

"And how's that?"

"He wraps them around his finger. I don't want him to do the same to you."

"He won't." Quinn threw up another smile. "I promise."

"I'm first."

"First?"

"On your forms, it says participant number one and my name."

Quinn shot a look down at the papers on the table. "Yeah, that's right. You were the first to volunteer to take part."

"First is the winner."

"It's not a race."

"But I'm the first, and Zane's the last."

Quinn frowned. "I guess so."

The grin reformed on Mackie's face, so big his lips paled with the stretch. "I've never been first at anything."

The look of wonder on Mackie's round face stunned Quinn to silence, and he tapped the number on the piece of paper.

"I'm number one," Mackie whispered, then walked away.

Quinn sat for a few minutes and looked over the notes he had made about Mackie's childhood. Neglected, unfairly punished, abused, and never rewarded, it was no wonder seeing his participant sheet had affected him.

It was the first time anyone had put him first in his life.

Cleo poked her head through the door. "So, Mackie passed by, whistling tunefully."

Quinn gathered up his notes and slid them into a folder, out of sight. "I'm lucky."

"Lucky?"

"My parents gave a shit about me."

Cleo snorted. "What some of them have been through boggles the mind. None of them had happy childhoods…apart from Zane."

"I read his mum left him when he was young."

Cleo nodded. "She did, but his dad adored him. He has pictures of them in his cell, arms around each other, grinning. He looks nice when he smiles."

Quinn raised his eyebrows.

"What? He does. He'll grow on you."

"Like a fungus."

Cleo laughed and backed away from the door. "You'll like him eventually. Everyone always does."

There's something not right about him.

"Well, I'm not everyone."

On Friday, Quinn found himself running late. He had woken up before his alarm but stayed in bed staring at the ceiling. Indecision swirled in his mind, and his heart ached in his chest as he replayed the last four years of his life in his head.

Four years he'd shared with someone else.

When he next glanced at the clock, time had jumped. He would've got to the prison on time if it wasn't for the congested road, but the universe had decided this was the day a tractor would break down on a single-track lane.

Quinn parked his car wonkily and rushed up to the gate. He flashed his ID card and slid through the gap of the opening fence. He apologised at the next gate, but he was waved inside without finishing his explanation.

More gates clunked, more cut-off explanations. Even Cleo just smiled when he apologised and told him not to worry.

He strolled into the office assigned to him and jolted back when he saw Zane waiting behind the table. Legs spread, tight T-shirt showing his muscles, and a devouring smile on his face.

They stared at each other.

Then Zane turned and looked pointedly at the clock.

"I'm sorry I'm late," Quinn said. He wasn't interrupted, he wasn't told not to worry, it was fine. Zane held his gaze, and he felt compelled to explain himself in full. "There was a broken-down tractor on the road."

Zane tilted his head. "Couldn't you have driven around it?"

"Single track, ditches either side. I had to reverse back almost a mile to get to a junction."

He slid into his chair and arranged his papers on the desk.

"That can't have helped…" Zane murmured.

Quinn followed Zane's gaze and looked at his watch. It was ten minutes behind the clock on the wall. He sighed and fiddled with the dial until it matched.

"I keep meaning to fix it."

"Why haven't you?" Zane asked.

"I push it to the back of my mind. It needs a professional to fix it, but I can't be bothered driving into town—"

"You could get a different one? Surely that would be easier. Even if it's temporary until you can be bothered."

Quinn glanced down at the watch and shrugged. "I guess it would."

He pressed record on the device in the centre of the table, then laid his hands flat on either side of it as he eyed Zane. "I'm going to ask you some questions. If there's any you don't want to answer, don't. If there's a topic you don't wish to discuss further, just say so. Everything said in this room stays between you and me."

"You and me," Zane repeated slowly.

"I'm interested in your child—"

"Yeah, childhood, family, I know. Mackie ruined the surprise. Couldn't wait to tell me he spoke to you first when he passed my cell."

"He's participant number one."

"He told me." Zane hummed. "And I'm the last participant, but I'd rather be last than first."

Quinn lifted his eyebrow, and Zane continued.

"I'd rather be someone's last kiss than their first. I would rather be the last to fuck someone than the first."

Quinn raised his hand. "Inappropriate…"

"It wasn't inappropriate. I didn't mention you in a sexual way. I was just giving examples of why being first isn't always best. Besides, he's number one at the moment, but I'm certain I can change that. Just give it time."

Quinn's skin crawled, but he ignored the sensation, scanning the sheet of questions in front of him. "Let's focus on today's questions."

Zane leaned back in his chair and tugged out a folded photograph from his jeans. He pressed it on the table and attempted to flatten the deep wrinkles.

"This is me and my old man."

Quinn gestured to the photo. "Can I see?"

Zane nodded and slid the picture across the table. Quinn could see the similarity of father and son, particularly the eyes. Not the colour, but the shape, and the brow. Zane looked younger, his hair longer and flicked out at the ends. He grinned, and his dad, with his hand gripping Zane's shoulder, grinned back.

"How old are you here?"

"Twenty-one."

Quinn smiled. "You look like him."

"Do I…"

Zane's voice was bored, unmoved, and Quinn glanced up. "You look happy here."

"Now why would you think that?"

"You're smiling, you're both smiling."

Zane snorted. "It's a photograph. People are told to smile. It's not a true representation of emotion, or a moment. It's staged."

"So you weren't happy when it was taken?"

"I didn't say that. I was happy, but my point is not to trust things at face value. Things aren't always as they seem nor are people."

"Can you tell me why you were happy?"

Zane glanced at the photograph. "Because my dad was happy. Is that a good enough reason?"

Quinn frowned and studied the picture again. They both had matching grins, and both leaned towards the other. It was a nice picture, one that would be at home on many mantelpieces.

"It was taken after I graduated from university," Zane said. "He was proud of me and took me fishing to celebrate."

"You enjoyed going fishing with your dad?"

"I enjoyed it because it made him happy."

Quinn slid the photograph back. "You must've cared a lot about him."

Zane's eyebrows tugged together, and he looked down at the table. "I was his only son. Only child. He wanted to be proud of me, and I made it so."

"Can I ask about your mother?"

"She left when I was thirteen."

"That must've hit you hard."

Zane shrugged. "It hit my dad harder."

Quinn thumbed through his notes and stopped on the section about Zane's parents.

"Have you tried reaching out to her?"

"Shouldn't it be her reaching out to me? Besides, she wasn't interested when I graduated or when I took over one of my father's businesses or when he died. She wasn't interested when I fell off the wagon and became a sex and alcohol addict. Why the hell would she be interested now I've been banged up for murder?"

"Do you feel resentment towards her?"

Zane scrunched his brow. "No. I don't feel angry or sad. I'm not filled with longing or a desperate need to know why she left. She has her path in life, and I have mine, and they don't cross. People judge each other, but life is personal. We know why we do the things we do. Others don't need to. I don't need to know why she left; that's on her."

"You had a good relationship with your dad?"

"I made him happy. He wanted me to pass university, I did. He wanted me to take over the business, I did. He wanted me to exceed profit margins, I did. I fulfilled his expectations again and again."

"What about what you wanted?"

Zane tilted his head and studied Quinn intently. "I wanted to become what he wanted me to be, and I did."

"Was there anything he didn't approve of?"

Zane sighed. "My reputation as a lothario. He warned me to keep my private life private, but I was foolish and the press wanted a piece of me, and I let them have…all of me."

"How do you think he would feel about your current…situation if he were alive today?"

Zane gazed up at the overhead light and folded his arms. "I wouldn't be here if he was still alive."

"You don't think that night would've happened if he was here?"

Zane smirked. "Course it wouldn't have."

"Why not?"

Zane leaned over the table, and Quinn retreated and pressed his back into his chair. "He wouldn't have wanted me to be here, but now he's dead, it doesn't matter. I'm in this room because I want to be here."

"You volunteered—"

"I'm not talking about the study, I'm talking about here. In this building. In this wing. In this room. I want to be here, so I'm here."

"You're here because you killed two people. Danny and Jessica Saunders. Friends of your dad's."

Zane hummed. "Exactly."

"How do you think your dad would've felt about that?"

"I doubt he would've liked it much, but if he was here…if I could speak to him right now, I think I could talk him round to my way of thinking. I think I could make him understand."

Quinn bit his lip. "Understand what?"

"Why I made the choices I made that led to me being here, sat this side of the desk, answering your questions." He smiled toothily. "Right now, I don't regret any of them."

"But sometimes you do?"

Zane's smile faded. "Sometimes."

"Because you feel guilt? Remorse?"

"No. Because it gets boring in here."

Quinn nodded. "Did your father ever…remarry?"

"No, he had plenty of girlfriends, but I saw them for what they were."

"And what were they?"

"Gold diggers. When you're a billionaire, a known billionaire, they hover around like flies near a carcass. He'd give in to a particularly pretty looking fly, or an energetic one, or a flexible one." Zane smirked. "But they were only there for the money, and they didn't interact with me."

"Did you want them to?"

"Hell no."

"Did you feel sad for your dad about these women using him?"

Zane shook his head. "Maybe I would've if he'd loved them, but he didn't. He only ever loved my mother, and she left him with no explanation. He never got over that, and any woman he dated was purely for physical reasons, but I knew he was lonely. Even with me there too, he was lonely. He missed her." Zane grimaced. "I'll never understand that."

"What?"

"Loving someone like that, unable to move on. It's the one thing I didn't like about my dad. I found it kind of pathetic."

Quinn blinked. He'd paused his pencil, hesitating to write the word pathetic . He lifted his gaze, and Zane was watching him. It was a calculating look. He squinted slightly.

"I think…" Quinn began. "I think I've got enough for today."

"Are you sure?"

Quinn managed an affirmative hum.

Zane's chair screeched along the floor as he stood up. He tucked it under the table, and Quinn waited for him to walk by and out the door, but instead Zane took a few steps further away.

"What are you—"

Without any warning, Zane lifted his T-shirt over his head, and Quinn's words lodged in his throat. Dark hair covered his pronounced pectorals and trailed down the centre line of his body to his belly button.

His shoulders were huge, and each of his abdominal muscles was clearly defined. Quinn gawped, unsure where to look or what to do.

A nervous energy reared up in his chest, and he shivered and swallowed again. The button was within reach, and the camera covered where Zane stood, recording him as he rolled his shoulders.

"I was hot," Zane said slowly as an explanation.

Quinn didn't reply, too shocked by the suddenness, by the reveal of Zane's torso in its muscular glory. Zane snorted and strolled over to the door. He paused and shot a look back.

"Your cheeks are flushed, and there's sweat on your top lip. I think you might be suffering from the heat too."

It was February 12, and it was freezing .

Zane winked as he passed through the door.

Quinn scrubbed his hand across his lips and then loosened the top two buttons of his shirt. He could feel his fevered cheeks and rubbed them to disperse the redness. "What the fuck…"

Cleo found him in the staff bathroom splashing cool water on his face ten minutes later. He was no longer blushing, but his skin had turned stark white and his blue eyes shone in their sockets.

He locked gazes with Cleo in the mirror.

"This is the men's. You can't come in here."

She tutted, pulled papers from the dispenser, and handed them over. Quinn shot her a grateful smile and dabbed his face.

"Zane?"

Quinn nodded. "He just whipped his T-shirt off. No warning whatsoever."

Cleo's eyebrows shot into her fringe. "Really?"

"Yeah, I didn't know what to do or—or where to look. I mean, I'm trying to be professional, and he just—"

"Did you take a picture?"

Quinn glared at her, spluttering, "Of course not."

"Shame." She shrugged. "Next time be prepared, just in case."

"I don't want there to be a next time."

Cleo laughed and shook her head. "I told you he's a trickster. He likes to push people's buttons and gauge their reactions. He's not going to hurt you, but he will play with you a little."

"I don't want to be played with by Zane Black." His stomach flipped. "This…this really needs to work." He squeezed his eyes shut. "I…I can't have him on the study."

"Come on, Quinn, he's only messing with you. You could be the one…"

"The one?" he asked, opening his eyes.

"Who gets him to admit what he did." Cleo's eyes were big, shimmering with excitement. "The one who uncovers his secrets; that alone is worth keeping him on the study. You could be the one to break Zane Black."

"Not if he breaks me first."