Chapter 2
Michael's POV
I drove silently along the winding mountain road, fog curling around the car like ghostly fingers. The forests on either side were dark and foreboding, branches bare in the November chill. Thomas sat beside me, fidgeting with his phone, probably reading up on the consultant we were about to meet.
"Are you sure this is the right address?" I finally asked, keeping my voice neutral despite my doubts. "Woodvale Mental Health Center seems like an odd place to find a criminal psychology consultant."
Thomas nodded enthusiastically, his glasses sliding down his nose. "Chief Finch was very specific. We're picking up Emily Grey at Woodvale at 9 AM sharp. GPS says we're almost there."
"I was asking rhetorically," I replied flatly.
Thomas blinked. "Oh. Was that a joke? I'm still working on identifying those."
I could only respond with a silent sigh.
Based on my experience, most experts just spout a bunch of profound but impractical theories, then issue various commands, which is simply a nuisance.
This was going to be a long morning.
"Did you know that psychology students have a 38% higher rate of mental health issues than the general population?" Thomas continued, oblivious to my discomfort. "Constant exposure to disturbed minds can alter one's perception of normality. Perhaps she's been working with patients there."
I kept my eyes on the road, knowing my face wouldn't betray my growing irritation as we approached the imposing gates of Woodvale Mental Health Center.
---
As I parked the car, the iron gates creaked open. The mental health center loomed against the morning sky, Gothic architecture incongruous with its modern medical purpose.
"If she works at a place like this, she must be a prestigious consultant," Thomas whispered, adjusting his tie nervously. "Though psychiatry has shown that prolonged exposure to mentally unstable individuals can affect even the most stable minds. The risk of—"
"Nelson," I cut him off, "let's focus on the task at hand."
As we approached the entrance, the heavy doors swung open. Two women emerged: an older woman in a white lab coat with a clipboard, and beside her, a younger woman with chestnut hair peeking out from under a black-gray knit hat. The younger woman wore a deep green coat over a beige skirt, carrying a dark blue duffel bag. Her amber eyes seemed to catch the morning light, standing out against her skin.
She looked directly at me and smiled—a small, knowing smile that made me pause. Despite her slightly pale complexion, there was something vibrant about her presence.
Thomas, however, immediately stepped forward toward the older woman in the lab coat, hand extended.
"Miss Grey? I'm Thomas Nelson, and this is Michael Stone. We're from the Riverstone Police Department, Major Crimes Unit. It's an honor to meet you. Your paper on the psychological patterns of serial arsonists was revolutionary, though I found your statistical methodology slightly flawed in the third section where you—"
The older woman raised an eyebrow, looking bemused. "I'm Emily's attending physician." She gestured to the younger woman. "This is Emily Grey."
Thomas froze, his hand still extended, mouth open mid-sentence. I closed my eyes briefly—the closest I could come to expressing exasperation.
Emily's POV
Two men waited at the entrance. One was short with a round face, black-framed glasses making him look like an oversized owl. He kept shifting his weight awkwardly. The other was tall with broad shoulders, his face completely expressionless—not a single muscle moved. Dark circles under his eyes and messy hair suggested he hadn't slept well.
"Emily Grey," I extended my hand to the taller one first, breaking the awkward atmosphere.
He nodded slightly, his handshake brief and firm.
"Hi! Nice to meet you!" Thomas smiled awkwardly. "Though I gotta say, I was surprised when Chief Finch said we're picking up a consultant from a mental institution."
Michael shot Thomas a warning glance, but I just laughed.
"Miss Grey, if your illness relapses, make sure to come back for treatment," the doctor hugged me, her voice full of reluctance to see me go.
I noticed the two officers exchange a strange look.
"I'll make time to come back and visit," I assured her.
Michael asked with surprise, "You're planning to return as a patient?"
"That depends," I gave him a sly smile, looking directly into his eyes. "If I find something more interesting to occupy my thoughts, I might not need to come back as a patient."
He didn't say anything more, just gestured for me to get in the car.
Walking toward the car, I studied Michael's face. The complete lack of expression wasn't just stoicism—it was a psychological issue. He was traumatized. I began to wonder what he had experienced.
Thomas cheerfully loaded my suitcase while Michael held the door open for me.
In the car, Thomas immediately turned around. "So you're really a criminal psychology expert? You seem really young."
"I'm twenty-four, and yes, I specialize in criminal psychology. Chief Finch requested me specifically." I watched Woodvale disappear in the side mirror, feeling both relief and a strange emptiness.
Michael's phone rang. "Stone," he answered, his voice as emotionless as his face.
His eyes narrowed slightly as he listened. "We'll head there now. Have the scene secured." He hung up and glanced at me in the rearview mirror. "It's about last night's case, we need to get there now."
Thomas sighed. "This is the third death case this month!"
We immediately changed direction, heading toward the crime scene.
During this time, I sent a quick message to Chief Finch: "Tell me about Michael Stone. What's his story?"
The response came quickly—an attachment labeled "Michael Stone - Personnel File."
I skimmed through it quickly. Michael Stone, 27. Mother is a teacher, father is a military man. Excellent academic record. Military service. Fast-tracked through police academy. Multiple commendations. No significant trauma or personal tragedy listed.
This contradicted my assessment. People don't develop facial expression disorders without reason. Something was definitely missing from his official record.
I stared at him, pondering and speculating. Then he caught my gaze in the rearview mirror; he noticed.
"Here," Michael said without any reaction, handing me a folder. "Case files for the previous deaths. Review them before we arrive."
I opened the folder. The first case: Brad Thornton, 40, high school math teacher found dead in his renovated basement. Carbon monoxide poisoning. Doors and windows locked from inside. Award-winning teacher with a reputation for being harsh toward female students.
The second victim: Christine Moore, 28, HR manager , found drowned in a pond with no signs of struggle. Known for her aggressive management style, recently oversaw company layoffs.
"So what exactly did they give you at Woodvale?" Thomas suddenly asked, turning in his seat. "What kind of medication were you on?"
I sighed. "I wasn't on medication, Thomas. I wasn't a patient."
Thomas turned completely in his seat. "If you weren't a patient, why were you staying in a mental hospital?"
"I thought the mental illness diagnostic process in this country was too hasty, so I posed as a schizophrenic to get into the hospital. The doctors never discovered my pretense. Eventually, I got bored and applied for discharge," I told a lie, not revealing the real reason.
"You could just apply to leave?" Michael questioned.
"The hospital has connections to my family. My father is an investor in the facility."
He shook his head, seeming to mentally label me as "unreliable."
The car slowed as we turned into Ocean View Apartments, a mid-range complex in the eastern part of the city. The building looked relatively new, with a robust security system despite the low occupancy rate.
"Wait here," Michael instructed as he parked. "Let the crime scene techs finish their work before you go in."
"I need to see the scene undisturbed," I insisted.
"We'll take photos," he countered.
I had to admit, Michael's emotional control was impressive. Despite his clearly annoyed tone, his face remained completely neutral.
What struck me as strange was that since I'd met him, he had maintained this cold expression, as if his face had been welded into a permanent mask.