Chapter 7

The prison door slammed shut behind her like a verdict.

Elena’s footsteps echoed down the long, concrete corridor, but she barely heard them. Her heart was still pounding. Her palms were damp, her throat tight. She didn’t even realize she was walking too fast until she stumbled into the harsh sunlight of the parking lot, squinting like someone who had been underground for days.

She stopped halfway to her car and let the heat hit her. Her arms hung limp at her sides. The silence outside felt wrong, too bright, too normal. The world was still spinning while she stood there, suspended in the haze Cain Maddox had left her in.

“You think you’re here to study me. But what if I’m the only one who sees you clearly?”

His voice haunted her. Not the sound of it, but the truth in it. Because he had seen her. Peeled back the layers she had spent years perfecting every sharp word, every wall, every calculated breath, and stared straight into the hollow parts.

Elena turned and walked faster, fumbling with her keys. Her hands shook. She dropped them once, cursed, then slid into the driver’s seat and slammed the door shut behind her.

Still shaking.

Still burning.

She started the engine and drove.

Not to the university. Not to the nearest café where she sometimes went to unwind. No, she drove home. Straight through traffic, windows up, music off. She didn’t want to hear anything. Not even her breath.

By the time she reached her apartment, she was gripping the steering wheel like it was the only thing anchoring her. Her knuckles were pale.

She didn’t remember getting out of the car. Didn’t remember climbing the stairs. She only knew she was inside when the door slammed behind her, and she was alone.

Elena stood in the middle of her living room. She could feel her clothes sticking to her skin now too tight, too close.

She ripped her blazer off and flung it somewhere across the room.

Then she walked into the kitchen, opened the cabinet above the sink, and stared at the bottle of whiskey she kept for “occasions.”

This felt like one.

She grabbed the bottle and poured herself a full glass. No ice. No hesitation. She tossed back the first gulp and nearly choked, the burn searing down her throat like punishment.

But she welcomed it.

She poured again. Slower this time. Her hands were steadier, but only because she was giving them something to do.

Cain Maddox was in her head.

Not just as a name. Not just as a case file or an inmate number.

No, he had moved in.

She drank again.

He saw her.

She hated how true it was.

She hated that no one, not her friends, not her professors, not even her own mother, had ever managed to do what he did in fifteen minutes across a metal table.

“You dream of someone seeing you. All of you.”

She let out a harsh laugh and sank onto the couch, glass still in hand. Her skin felt tight. Her chest wouldn’t rise properly. It was like the air in the room was poisoned with his words.

She tilted her head back against the couch cushion and stared up at the ceiling, blinking hard.

“You wake up remembering just enough to ache.”

Another sip.

How did he know that?

How did he look at her, just look and find the exact places she had buried, the ones she didn’t even dig up in therapy?

She should have walked away. She wanted to walk away.

But something in his voice had held her there. Rooted her in place like he’d wrapped invisible chains around her ankles.

And what if that terrifies you more than anything I’ve ever done?

Elena closed her eyes and exhaled sharply through her nose. Her jaw clenched.

She hated him.

She hated that he had her unraveling like this.

But more than that, she hated the tiny part of her that felt… understood. The part that had never been seen so clearly, not even by the people who were supposed to love her.

Her mother didn’t ask how she slept. Didn’t ask why she avoided mirrors. She cared about dinner parties and reputations and what shade of lipstick looked best on camera.

Her professors cared about research, about compliance, about neat reports.

But Cain?

Cain had asked, “Who hurt you?”

And not out of sympathy. Not out of some calculated ploy.

No. He had asked because he knew the weight of that question. Because he’d carried it too.

And for one horrifying moment, in that room, across that table…

She felt less alone.

Elena took another drink, slower this time. The glass was nearly empty now.

She set it on the coffee table and leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees, her head in her hands.

What was happening to her?

This wasn’t the job. This wasn’t what she signed up for.

She was supposed to remain objective. Controlled. Clinical.

Not… this.

Not raw and trembling and haunted by the eyes of a killer.

Cain wasn’t just a murderer with a tragic backstory.

He was a mirror.

And what terrified her wasn’t what she saw in him.

It was what she saw of herself.

Elena rubbed her face, trying to shake it off, but it was no use.

He had gotten in.

And no amount of whiskey would be enough to erase the moment she realized she wanted him to stay there.