Page 96 of Killing Me Softly

He dialled her number, his phone at his mouth as he made his way down the corridor and back out onto campus. His police escort was doing a shit job of blending in. Standing by the entrance in full uniform, eyes tracking him as he approached. Aaron rolled his eyes. Yeah, okay, fair enough, this wasn’t about subtlety. It was about making sure people knew he was protected. So he gave the officer a nod, then kept walking. Mel’s phone rung out into nothing. Unease prickled at his skin. He opened WhatsApp instead and sent her a voice note:

“Hey, just knocked for you. Guessing your date went well? Look, I need to talk to you about something. I’m heading to lecture, but maybe we can ditch it? Get a coffee. Obvs, I mean tea. Or fuck it, let’s have a smoke. See you in a sec.”

He zoomed off the message, shoved his phone back in his pocket, and headed toward the lecture hall block, already scanning the gathering crowd of students waiting outside. They were all so fucking oblivious that another of theirs had been taken. That someone they had sat next to, partied with, seen in the corridors, was lying on a slab somewhere. But that was how it always went, didn’t it? Life kept moving. And it was always Aaron left standing in the wreckage, knowing what it cost.

His police guard took up position opposite Lecture Room Two, but Aaron wasn’t paying attention anymore. He scanned the crowd.

No Mel.

He shifted on his feet, eyes darting to the whooshing entrance doors, half expecting to see her stumble in, walk of shame style, makeup smudged, hair a mess. And he’d feel guilty, ruining her high with what he had to tell her. But she never came. The lecture theatre doors opened, students shuffling inside for Advanced Developmental Psychopathology.

Kenny wouldn’t be lecturing today.

Neither, it seemed, would Dr Pryce, as a different faculty member was already at the front, setting up. Aaron hesitated. His pulse kicked up. Where the fuck was Mel? Dragging his feet, he wandered in, dropping into the back row, keeping his eyes on the doors, ears on his phone.

The doors shut. The room settled.

Mel still didn’t arrive.

The lecturer started talking. Some bullshit about today’s core module, and Aaronshouldpay attention. Not just because this was his final year. Or because every note mattered. But because the subject hit too fucking close to home.

“What makes a killer? Is it their biology, their environment, or some perfect storm of both?” The lecturer started, pointing up to his presentation slide. “Throughout history, we have dissected the minds of those who commit the most heinous acts, trying to pinpoint the moment they ‘became’ something monstrous. But what if, instead of a single moment, it was a lifetime in the making? What if the foundation of violence is laid not in adulthood but in infancy, in the silent corridors of early development, where nature and nurture wage their quiet war?”

Aaron bounced his knee with restless energy.

Checked his phone again.

“Today, we’ll discuss the intergenerational transmission of psychopathy and trauma. A phenomenon that raises a critical question: Are some people destined to walk the same path as those who came before them? Research in developmental psychopathology suggests that psychopathy, like trauma, can be passed down. Not just through DNA, but through the environments we are raised in. A child of violence, neglect, or manipulation does not simply inherit genetic predispositions. They inherit a blueprint for survival. Their neural pathways are shaped by fear, their attachment systems wired for distrust. If aparent shows no empathy, does the child ever learn what it looks like?”

God, Aaron couldn’t switch this man off.

“Take, for example, the offspring of known offenders—”

Especially when he said that.

“Children raised in the shadow of their parents’ crimes. Studies have shown that children who grow up in homes where extreme antisocial behaviour is normalised often display early indicators of psychopathy: impaired emotional recognition, an inability to form secure attachments, and, in some cases, a dissociative detachment from their own actions. But is this fate? Or is there a way out? Some argue that intervention, therapy, and conscious choices can reroute a seemingly predestined path. Others suggest that the echoes of our past—our genetics, our childhood experiences—leave an indelible mark, one that shapes our future in ways we cannot control.

“So, as we go through today’s lecture, I want you to consider: If we could predict violence before it manifests, would we have a moral obligation to intervene? And more importantly… does a child born in darkness ever truly get to step into the light?”

Sharp vibrating on Aaron’s leg jolted him as if a blade had pressed into his skin. He yanked his phone out, Mel’s name flashing on the screen. Relief surged.

Had a great night last night, thanks. I’m into bondage!

But relief was short lived when another text came in. A photo.Mel. Bound, gagged, and strapped to a chair. Eyes wide, terrified. Tears streaking down her face. The phone fell from his hands, clattering to the desk, as if just dropping it would make this not real.

No.

No. No. No. No. No. Fuck no!

This wasn’t happening.

Not again.

“Mr Jones?” the lecturer’s voice pierced through the fog, sharp, expectant.

Aaron fumbled for his phone, drowning out the white noise of whispers and shifting seats around him. He then looked up, dazed, vision tunnelling on the man at the front.

“I know you getextra tuitionhere, but it would still benefit you to listen tomylectures.”

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