Page 119 of Psychopath

“It’s supposed to be a job, not your whole life. It’s taking over.”

“Are you seriously psychoanalysing me right now?”

“Someone has to. Someone has to pull you back from the brink.”

Quinn shook his head. “There is no brink.”

“You didn’t like the way Gemma looked at me, did you?” Zane cocked his head, studying Quinn’s reaction. “You didn’t like how she pushed into my personal space or how her hands lingered on my body, and for a split second, there was a darkness in your eyes that reminded me of Virgil.”

“I’m nothing like Virgil.”

“I know that, but do you? Or are things starting to feel a little blurred? Are the killers you’ve surrounded yourself with for six months starting to rub off on you?”

Quinn hung his head. He remembered the spike of hatred at Gemma, the hot roll of jealousy washing over him, and his self-disgust when he realised what it was.

He sympathised with Noah, and even at one point, no matter how fleeting, thought Darren deserved that agonising death for what he’d put Noah through. Even Noah hadn’t thought that, but Quinn had. It was wrong of him. He’d shut it down, but it had surfaced from somewhere, jumping to the forefront of his mind.

And with Harris, he noted down his lack of a response to horror, whether images or sounds, when Quinn himself had started to go numb in the face of them. Doctor Hart and the nurses had all been affected, but not Quinn, who used them again and again with no reaction.

His breath hitched when he thought of lying down in the scanner himself, running his own experiment and coming out of the machine with a similar result to Harris, a psychopath. He lifted his hands. His palms were sweaty, and the red crescents he’d cut into his skin with his nails stung.

“I’m turning into one of them.”

“No,” Zane said firmly. “You’ve been around us too long, that’s all.”

Quinn took off his tie, then unbuttoned his shirt. He slipped it from his shoulders and hissed in pleasure when his bare back touched the plastic behind him. Zane bit his lip, eyeing Quinn as he panted.

“What?” Quinn asked.

“I know it’s completely inappropriate, but—”

“Forget I asked,” Quinn said, taking another sip from his bottle. “We really don’t need inappropriate right now.”

Zane snorted, bumping his shoulder into Quinn’s.

“How far do you reckon Virgil will get?”

Quinn sighed. “I don’t know. But for Luca’s sake, I hope he’s found fast.”

“So that’s love, is it?”

“No.” Quinn met Zane’s eyes. “I don’t know what that is, but it’s not love.”

Zane looked at Quinn for a long moment. “I’ll…I’ll take your word for it.”

He soaked his vest in water, then began dabbing it up and down his chest.

“How long until we die from the heat?” Quinn asked.

“Do you really have to be so doom and gloom?”

“Or maybe sooner than that if Virgil comes back.”

“Hey.” Zane gripped Quinn’s thigh. “I’m not going to let him hurt you.”

“Why not? You could run away while he’s busy with me.”

“Do you really think I’d do that?”

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