Page 2 of Psychopath

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.”

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