Page 87 of Dream a Little Dream

They parked up, the previous arguments forgotten for favoured silence. He and Jack both knew what they were walking into and they shared their unrest in the quiet steps of their own headspace. After all the signing in at reception and extensive searches by the guards, they walked throughthe corridors, uniform and cold, paint peeling off the walls with graffiti etched into them by inmates long forgotten. The fluorescent lights above buzzed like an irritating fly circling overhead and, in the distance, the clomp of footsteps and occasional shout reverberated through the echo chamber.

Shown to a vacant interview room with nothing but a plastic table and four chairs, they were told to sit and wait. They did. Again, with no exchange of words. Both lost to their thoughts and drumming heartbeats until the rattling chains, clanging keys and shuffling flip flops along concrete shunted them to face the reality of why they were here.

Roisin Howell entered the room with grace and dignity, despite the handcuffs binding her wrists and the two butch prison guards. She was more like a queen walking among her subjects than a prisoner flanked by guards. Her grey tracksuit bottoms, baby-pink T-shirt, and bright yellow woollen cardigan, probably knitted by her own hands, made up the uniform of a woman attempting to depict herself as innocuous. But her feet, tucked into standard issue sliders, revealed newly painted toes, an attention to detail matching the tousled perfection of her once vibrant blonde hair, now slightly dulled with age. And, despite her wrinkles and the dark circles, she was still as dangerously attractive as she had been ten years ago.

And her vibrant blue eyes shone in just the same way Aaron’s did.

Piercing. Striking.Luring.

“Dr Lyons!” She smiled.Radiantly. Trying very hard to show a personable delight at their reunion, but the deadness behind those remarkable eyes had set in long ago.

“Roisin.” Kenny remained calm, though his heart thundered. Her gaze sliced through him, stripping him bare, exposing the dark thoughts he’d been trying to keep buried. The images of her son, his hands on him, the things he shouldn’t think about.

She lowered herself into the chair with a practiced elegance, holding up her cuffed hands in mock surrender.

“How am I supposed to crochet likethis?” She glanced between Jack and Kenny, voice syrupy sweet but with a sinister undercurrent. “You wouldn’t deny a woman her stress relief, would you? The doctors here have given me special dispensation on the grounds it calms my nerves. And I’ve had some rather upsetting news recently.”

Jack gave a nod to the guards. They reluctantly unlocked her cuffs, but left one wrist chained to the table. Roisin smiled in gratitude, or more victory, as she fished out a half finished crochet pattern and stitched.

Kenny had spent years dissecting minds like Roisin’s. A classic narcissistic sociopath, she had carefully curated layers of charm and deceit, masking her sadism underneath. Her need for control, her ability to play the victim while orchestrating the game, it was all too familiar, and as a psychologist, Kenny had to play along, guide the conversation with precision. Missteps would only harden her defences, making it impossible to get any useful information.

“Thank you for meeting with us, Mrs Howell,” Jack began, ever the professional, but to Kenny’s ears, too direct. Roisin would see through it. She thrived on subtlety, not force.

Unsurprisingly, Roisin ignored Jack entirely. Instead, her attention fixed on Kenny. “How are you, Dr Lyons?” Her voice was warm, deceptively motherly, but Kenny knew that tone. A refined trap.

“I’m well, Roisin.” He kept his tone neutral but engaging. “And you?”

“Oh, I’m just fine, sweetheart.” Her fingers never paused their intricate crochet work. It was a minor detail, but Kenny noted it. She needed to keep her hands busy. It wasn’t anxiety. No, for Roisin, the act of creating something extended hercontrol, her ability to manipulate even the smallest of things into the shape she wanted. “I appreciate the tie, Dr Lyons. It brings out the darkness in your eyes.”

“Thank you.” Kenny gave a small smile to Jack.

Jack rolled his eyes and leaned forward as if authority would somehow penetrate the walls Roisin had built. “We’d like to talk to you about a recent incident. You might have some insight for our investigation.”

Kenny winced. Too direct again. Roisin thrived on indirect confrontation. She didn’t respond to being told what to do. She responded to power plays, ones where she could hold the upper hand.

But Roisin barely acknowledged Jack, her focus still on Kenny. “I read your book,The Criminal Mastermind: What Makes Women Kill?” she said, tone light, teasing. “Quite fascinating. Sent chills down my spine.” She smiled, but those eyes remained untouched. “Had to ask for a nightlight.”

Her mention of the book was no accident. Kenny knew Roisin. She was bringing it up to remind him she had studied him, too. That she understoodhiswork, and perhaps, on some level, understoodhim. A veiled challenge. She was testing how much control he had over the narrative.

“I’m glad you found the time to read it,” Kenny said, feeling the undercurrent between them building. “I imagine you’re quite the busy woman in here.”

Roisin’s laugh echoed through the room, too loud for the small space. “Oh, Dr Lyons. You know how to tease.” She ran her eyes up and down him appraisingly. “And might I say, you’ve agedverywell. I like the rugged look. Quite…primal. Bet you have all those students getting on their knees for you.”

Kenny fought the urge to react, knowing her goal was to throw him off balance. She needed to feel like she was the one in control of this interaction, the one pulling the strings. He’dseen this behaviour in others. Deliberate flirtation to disrupt the professional space, to turn a psychological evaluation into a power play. She couldn’t know that the last person he’d had on their knees for him had been her son.

“Thank you,” Kenny said, ridding those images of a backroom club, of a beautiful man on his knees for him, and how that night had changed his entire life. Might have brought him right back here again. “You’re aging well too.”

Her smile widened, predatory. “Flattery will get you everywhere. Or at least as far as the guards will let you.” Her voice dipped lower, sultry. “I bet you don’t mind a few more involved, though. You’re not restricted to certain genitalia, are you, darling?”

Classic. Her ability to shift the conversation into more intimate spaces was a technique designed to make him uncomfortable, to test his boundaries. It was the same method she’d likely used on her victims, disarming them with warmth before sinking her claws in.

He redirected quickly, knowing they needed to get back on track. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Don’t lie to me, Dr Lyons. You’re not sorry. You hated him as much as I did.” Her hands moved faster, more erratically with their stitching. “He should’ve died years ago. Before all thatunpleasantness. How many lives could’ve been spared? Including my own.”

Kenny stayed silent, observing her. This was an opening, a moment where her bitterness toward Frank could enable him to extract more information.

“You’re still upset.” He adopted a more empathetic tone. “Because he ruined your life. Because he wasn’t the perfect husband for you.”

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