Page 4 of Imprisoned

I slam the file shut, but the images are burned into my mind. My office suddenly feels smaller. The walls press in. Any sane person would feel revulsion at what I just read, but I’m fascinated.

This man, this killer, will be sitting across from me in two days. Those same hands that ended ten lives will be across thedesk from mine. That brilliant, twisted mind will be mine to explore.

I press my palms against my desk, trying to ground myself. What’s wrong with me? Normal people don’t get excited about meeting serial killers. They run the other way.

But I can’t stop thinking about those interview transcripts—the glimpses of his psyche and the pathology between the lines, the perfect mask he wears, and what lies beneath.

Two days. Just two days until I meet Axel Morrison.

A sharp knock breaks me from my thoughts. I shove Axel’s file into my desk drawer, my heart racing.

“Come in.”

A tall man with salt-and-pepper hair pokes his head in. “Dr. Matthews? I’m Dr. Jameson from the psych ward.” His smile reaches his eyes, crinkling the corners. “Thought I’d stop by and see how your first day went.”

“Oh, please.” I gesture to the chair across from my desk. “It’s nice to meet you.”

He settles in, crossing one leg over the other. “So, baptism by fire, huh? These first days can be rough.”

“That obvious?” I smooth my skirt, ignoring the lingering unease from reading the file. “This morning was challenging. One patient refused to even look at me the entire session.”

“Ah, yes. That happens more often than not.” Dr. Jameson leans forward. “But how about your afternoon sessions?”

“They went better, actually.” The tension in my shoulders eases as I recall my later appointments. “I had some really good conversations. One inmate opened up about his anxiety, and we made real progress on coping strategies.”

“That’s excellent. Sometimes, all it takes is one positive interaction to remind us why we chose this field.”

“Exactly.” I find myself matching his warm smile. “I’m feeling more confident now. More settled.”

“Good to hear. We’re a tight-knit team here. Whenever you need support or want to bounce ideas around, my door’s always open.”

Dr. Jameson’s eyes linger on my chest for a moment too long as I describe my afternoon sessions. My skin prickles with discomfort, but I keep talking, hoping I’m imagining things.

“You know,” he interrupts, leaning closer, “there’s a great little bar just down the street. Perfect spot to unwind after a tough first day. What do you say we continue this conversation over drinks?”

My stomach knots. He’s handsome, sure—distinguished features, fit for his age, kind smile. Under different circumstances, maybe. But something in his gaze sets off alarm bells.

“Oh, that’s...” I twist my hands in my lap, hating how my voice comes out small and uncertain. “That’s really nice of you to offer.”

“Come on, one drink won’t hurt.” His smile widens. “We can swap stories about our most interesting cases.”

The walls feel closer suddenly. I force myself to meet his eyes, summoning what I hope is an apologetic expression.

“I appreciate the invitation, but I’m completely exhausted.” I gesture at the stack of files on my desk. “First-day nerves, you know? Maybe we could take a rain check?”

His smile dims. “Of course, of course. Another time, then.”

I nod, relief washing over me as he stands to leave.

“My door’s always open,” he reminds me, lingering in the doorway. “For anything you need.”

The emphasis onanythingmakes my skin crawl.

“Thanks again, Dr. Jameson.” I manage a polite smile until he finally leaves my office.

I stuff files into my briefcase, trying to forget the predatory glimmer in his eyes. The facility feels different now, more oppressive. I check my phone to see that it’s five forty-five p.m.

Mom will have dinner ready soon.

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