Born, Darkly: Darkly, Madly Duet: Book One Read online

  Born, Darkly

  Darkly, Madly Duet: Book One

  Trisha Wolfe

  Contents

  Quote

  Prologue

  1. Animal

  2. Blood

  3. Visceral

  4. Insight

  5. Psychopathy

  6. Lockdown

  7. Entanglement

  8. Gravity

  9. Puzzle

  10. Flight

  11. Nexus

  12. Tomb

  13. Lay Bare

  14. Departure

  15. Prison

  16. Perjury

  17. Execution

  18. Free Me

  19. The Dare

  20. Chemistry

  21. Test

  22. Grave

  23. Master Our Passion

  24. Cell

  25. Asylum

  26. Till Death

  27. Darkness

  28. Trap

  29. Deliverance

  30. Burn

  31. Thereafter

  Broken Bonds Series

  Also by Trisha Wolfe

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2017 by Trisha Wolfe

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  What madness is it to be expecting evil before it comes.

  ~Lucius Annaeus Seneca

  Prologue

  Physician, Heal Thyself

  London

  Hands.

  We don’t consider them enough.

  Taken for granted, our hands don’t get the attention and recognition they deserve. Rather, we abuse them. Use them to abuse. Fondle our fat, loathing our bodies, especially women. We pluck and tug at our face, cursing the years. Never once acknowledging their beauty and strength—those precious instruments that enable us to do almost anything.

  I notice mine now. Shaking and cold. The ugly beveled grooves from wrapping my fingers with string over the years. I use my thumb to smudge off the dirt that perspiration hasn’t completely sweated away, revealing the faded black ink along the side of my palm.

  My voice cracks on a laugh. I stare at the tattooed key on my flesh until my eyes blur. Sweat leaks into their corners, a biting sting like a needle piercing my vision clear.

  Then I look up at all the dangling keys.

  A canopy of gleaming silver and bronze and rusted metals held aloft by red string—a blanket woven of blood in the sky. The keys clang together, playing a dark, chiming melody that chills me to the bone.

  He knows me.

  In my vanity, I concealed the ugly and vile. And yet he saw.

  In my profession, your past can be as damning as a wrong diagnosis. Shame is the conception of most sins against ourselves.

  A wail rips through the canopy, and I can feel the agony in the gutturalness of it. A scream wrenched from an abyss of never-ending pain. It forces my hand into the air.

  I teeter on the rock, bare feet gripping the serrated edge of stone, as I reach for the first key.

  Forgive me.

  1

  Animal

  London

  “Dr. Noble, can you tell us what the culprit was thinking when he did this?” The lawyer points to a projection screen along the courthouse wall. Magnified for the courtroom, the projected image displays the charred remains of a woman’s mutilated body.

  I press my fingers into my kneecap behind the witness stand. My nails snag my sheer stockings, and I mentally curse, craving the feel of my string. Turning toward the screen, I open my mouth.

  “Objection, Your Honor. The witness can’t know what the defendant was thinking.”

  My gaze flicks to the judge. “Your rebuttal, Mr. Alister,” she prompts the defendant’s lawyer.

  Armani suit as dark as his eyes, he smoothes his tie down along his dress shirt. “Dr. Noble is an expert witness, Your Honor. She was called in because she’s an expert in her field, which is insight into the minds of criminal individuals.”

  “Disturbed individuals,” the prosecutor says loud enough for the court to hear.

  “Don’t make me slam my gavel, Mr. Hatcher.” The judge raises her gavel in warning. “Objection overruled. Dr. Noble was asked to provide testimony of her professional opinion of the defendant’s state of mind. Since she’s come all this way—” Judge Gellar grants me a telling smile, her dark features more youthful when not fixed in a scowl “—I’d like to hear her thoughts.”

  The prosecutor clears his throat before taking a seat. My nails sink into my kneecap as I again turn toward the screen. I’m a top psychologist in the field of criminal psychology—not a public speaker. No matter how many times I’ve taken the stand, it never gets easier. I loathe public speaking just as much now as I did in college.

  “After examining the defendant, Charles Reker, I believe he displays classic signs of paranoid schizophrenia. In particular, he suffers from a specific delusion: Capgras delusion. Charles Reker, amid this delusion, believed his wife to be a clone—”

  “Objection—”

  “Sit down and shut up, Mr. Hatcher, or I will hold you in contempt.”

  The lawyer looks stricken. “On what grounds?” He quickly backpedals, “Your Honor.”

  Judge Gellar circles her gavel threateningly. “On the grounds that interruptions annoy me. Let the witness finish her testimony.”

  Pressing my palms onto the chair seat, I steady my voice. “In my professional opinion, the defendant believed his wife was replaced with a clone by the government as a means to spy on him. He believed that by torching the clone, he’d destroy the government's ability to control him.”

  Mr. Alister walks around the table and places a hand on his client’s shoulder. “So you do not believe—in your professional opinion—that Charles intended to murder his wife of twenty-four years.”

  “No,” I say, bolstering my voice an octave higher. “Charles was unable to distinguish reality from his delusion. His intent was to destroy a clone of his wife. Not his wife. He felt threatened in the midst of his delusional state.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Noble. No more questions.”

  A sinking feeling tugs at the back of my mind, but I suppress that weakness. A brutal murder occurred, but the man sitting across from me at the defendant’s table—now medicated under my care—is no longer capable of the brutality he exhibited when he violently killed his wife. His eyes reflect remorse. His disorder wouldn’t allow guilt to show through; he’s unable to fake it.

  “Would you like to cross examine this witness, Mr. Hatcher?” the judge asks.

  “Yes. Thank you, Your Honor.” As the lawyer stands from behind the prosecution’s table, I straighten my back.

  The position threads every muscle along my spine with white-hot pain. I part my mouth to inhale a breath and then expel the ache, visualizing the pain as a physical object I can eject from my body.

  Hatcher strides to the computer on the roll cart and adjusts the image. We’re given a close-up of Margot Reker’s mutilation. Members of the jury physically react, some averting their eyes.

  “Dr. Noble,” he begins with a vain toss of his head. I arch an eyebrow. “Since your expert opinion is so widely sought after, would you expound on why you believe Charles Reker sliced his wife up with a butcher knife after he set her on fire.”

  “Objection,” the defense interjects. “Is there a question here, Your Honor? The witness has already provided testimony to her thoughts
on the defendant’s state of mind.”

  The judge looks at Hatcher expectantly.

  “Dr. Noble provided the speculated reasoning as to the murder, but not the mutilation, Your Honor. In my opinion—”

  “Careful, counselor,” the judge warns.

  “It’s been stated the defendant killed his wife to eliminate the threat of government conspiracy,” he revises. “However, I only aim to uncover why, then, the need for overkill.”

  Judge Gellar considers his rebuttal, then nods. “Proceed carefully, Mr. Hatcher.”

  He again focuses his piercing eyes on me. “Do I need to elaborate?”

  Back pain is enough to bring the strongest person to their knees. Me? I get temperamental when in the middle of a flare-up. “I was able to follow, thank you. What you see on the screen does resemble overkill, that which can be construed as a crime of passion.”

  “Exactly,” the lawyer says. “A crime of passion.” He turns and states this to the jury.

  “However,” I continue, undeterred. “I analyzed Charles Reker for over a period of a month before I was able to clearly decipher the why. He was looking for proof.”

  Hatcher tilts his head. “Proof?”

  “Yes. He was searching for the computer chip that transmitted his information to the government. During his search, he was apprehended by the police.”

  “His search?” He props one hand on his hip and marches to the screen. The lawyer has studied too many courtroom movies. “You’re telling me that this—” he points to the charred, flayed skin hanging from the victim’s bones “—was also a part of his delusion? That Charles Reker sliced and stabbed his wife more than thirty times all for a chip?”

  “Yes.”

  “Dr. Noble. I’m sorry, but to me, and probably to everyone else in the courtroom, this looks like the violent, destructive crime of an enraged man. A man furious with his cheating wife.” He nods to the jury. “As we proved beforehand.”

  “Objection,” the defense says. “Counsel is testifying, Your Honor.”

  “Sustained. Ask a question, Mr. Hatcher, or wrap it up.”

  Incensed, the lawyer approaches the witness stand. “Did you, at all, factor Mrs. Reker’s affair into your evaluation? How such a painful betrayal from a wife of over twenty years could push an already unhinged man over the edge?”

  I stare into his eyes. “I did.”

  His head jerks back, arms thrown wide. “Care to share, doctor?”

  “Are you afraid of your wife, Mr. Hatcher?”

  My challenging question knocks the smirk off his face. “Excuse me?”

  “Your wife—” I nod to his hand that displays a gold wedding band “—are you fearful for your life when she discovers your affair with your paralegal?” I glance at the blonde seated at the prosecution’s table. “Because, according to your provoking argument of Mr. Reker, you should be downright terrified.”

  A collective gasp rolls through the courtroom.

  His lips curl in irritation, but he does a fantastic job at schooling the rest of his features. “Other than this being a blatant attempt to shift the focus of this trial, your assessment couldn’t be more off base, Dr. Noble. Which should prove psychology is hardly credible in a murder case.”

  “When you first entered the courtroom,” I say, lifting my chin. “You guided your paralegal to the table by the small of her back.” He starts to interrupt, and I hold up a finger. “Which can be excused as simple old-school chivalry. Disturbing, but excusable. However, you don’t have to be a psychologist to detect your affair; anyone in this courtroom can spot the obvious signs. Your paralegal has a tan line where her wedding ring should be. You’ve been spinning your ring during the trial. Each time you spin it, you then check your phone. Which could be a nervous habit, but our subconscious gives away that which we most want to hide.”

  The lawyer looks to the judge. “Your Honor, you can’t allow this—”

  “You opened the door, Mr. Hatcher.” Judge Gellar lifts her shoulders in an unapologetic shrug.

  “Also,” I continue. “The whole time you’ve been questioning me, your paralegal has been intermittently checking your phone herself.” He turns around to look. “I suspect that you’re both waiting for a reply from your wife. A possible confirmation that you’ll be able to spend a prolonged period of time together.”

  The blonde flinches when Hatcher’s phone vibrates on the table.

  Judge Gellar sighs. “Want to check your messages, Mr. Hatcher?”

  He pivots to face the judge, his narrowed eyes sweeping me. “No, Your Honor. I don’t care to play into courtroom theatrics.” Then to me: “I fail to see how attempting to disgrace me proves your evaluation of Charles Reker was thorough, Dr. Noble.”

  I shift my position, alleviating the throbbing pressure at the base of my back. I’m officially tired of sitting here. “A crime of passion suggests an act of immediacy. Charles Reker, after careful analysis, proved to be aware of his wife’s infidelity for over a year. Like you, Mr. Hatcher, Mrs. Reker was obvious in her attempts to hide the affair. So if you’re suggesting that an affair alone is motive enough for murder…then I would be very wary of going through with your weekend plans.”

  At his intense silence, I add, “My findings and diagnosis are all documented in the files I sent to your paralegal.” I nod to the mountain of files on the prosecution’s desk. “If you’d been as invested in this case as you are with your extra curricular activities, you’d have read my reports, and not presented such a weak case for the prosecution.”

  A flash of anger stains his face, then he takes measured steps to his table. “I’m done, Your Honor. No more questions.”

  Judge Gellar shakes her head. “I agree there, Mr. Hatcher.”

  An hour after my testimony, the trial concludes, and the jury is sequestered for deliberation. High profile cases can’t be kept out of the media, unfortunately. Judge Gellar is doing what she can to give Charles a fair trial.

  I’m confident I was able to help the jury see past the grisliness of Charles’s crime to the sick individual beneath. And, Mr. Hatcher won’t ever call me to the stand in the future, I’m sure. Which I consider a double victory.

  The crisp scent of spring greets me as I exit the courthouse. Maine is so fresh in the spring, as if everyone is given a clean slate. I inhale the jasmine in the air, letting it cleanse the trial from my system. I head down the steps, careful not to trigger another flare-up, and pain lances my arm.

  It’s acute and not the norm. As I spin around, cold liquid douses me—the shock of it stealing my breath. I drop my briefcase and wipe at my face, clearing away the thick substance.

  My hands are covered in red.

  “You got a murderer off!” a woman shouts. She throws a metal bucket at me, her aged features creased in anger. “That devil killed my sister. He burned her alive and hacked her up. Her blood is on your hands, you animal.”

  My mouth pops open, and is immediately filled with the metallic taste of blood. I gag. I’m only given a moment to process what’s taking place before she flees down the steps at the sound of sirens.

  2

  Blood

  London

  Pig’s blood. According to a pathologist friend who was gracious enough to test a sample at the station, Margo Reker’s sister doused me in pig’s blood. I suppose to her, I’m as bad as a cop. Because that’s the only correlation I can conceive as to why she’d select the blood of a swine.

  That, or she owns a pig farm…

  Which isn’t bringing any good conclusions to mind, so I’m going with the cop theory and easy access to a butcher’s shop.

  In the end, I didn’t press charges. No reason for that family to suffer any more than they already have. And by foregoing the lengthy process to press charges, I was able to salvage my afternoon sessions.

  Two hours of showering and then soaking, and showering some more, and I still feel as if there’s a filmy layer of pig membranes coating my skin. No use
trying to salvage my designer suit; it’s trashed, right along with my dignity. And I really loved that suit, too.

  Even ten years later, the thought of how much money I spent on the brand-name label, only to toss it out, drops heavy in my stomach like a lead weight. Thud. The sinking, ill feeling is a testament to our roots—the way we view ourselves so deeply ingrained that no amount of money can change self-image.

  Although I do a fine job of dressing the part, when I look in the mirror, I still see that same poor, small-town girl. Her washed out skin, her sullen, sunken eyes, and badly bleached hair.

  I toss my rich dark locks over my shoulder now as I pull open the door of my building. I’ve spent years helping others rise above, to embrace a future free of their past, so you’d think this knowledge would benefit me. Yet, I still struggle with my own personal psychologist to move beyond that deprived girl from Hallows, Mississippi.

  And being doused in pig’s blood sure as shit doesn’t help me forget.

  On the elevator ride up, I use the few seconds I have alone to pin my hair and pop a muscle relaxer. The repeated showering didn’t help my flare-up. Hot water only serves to aggravate the inflammation. So much so that I turned the lever all the way to cold in a fit of anger.

  It was a poor substitution for my morning routine of hot and cold therapy, which was already disrupted with the trial. What’s a little pig’s blood to top it all off? I’ll make sure to have Lacy schedule an appointment with my chiropractor.

  The elevator doors open to the sixth floor. My floor. Reclaimed hardwood meets each step, my nine-hundred dollar pumps clacking against the refinished surface. The walls of my practice are a soothing gray. Decorative art hangs strategically at eye level to keep my high-paying clients from staring at the shackled criminals in the waiting room.

  I should’ve remodeled after I leased the floor, designed a separate waiting room—one where the ward could stow the eyesores—but doing so would’ve felt like acceptance, enabling me to continue in a direction I no longer wish to pursue.