Page 7 of Psychopath

“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.

2

Zane 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.

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