Behind The Glass

Chapter One 

The first rule of working inside Blackridge Correctional Facility was simple:

Never forget who was behind the glass.

I had repeated it to myself so many times that, after six months, the words had lost their meaning. Dr. Mara Voss, twenty-four years old, licensed therapist, employee badge number 4172, authorized for psychiatric evaluations and behavioral counseling.

That was who I was on paper.

Inside these walls, I was something else.

A woman with a clipboard.

A woman they could lie to.

A woman they could threaten.

A woman they could spend fifty minutes studying instead of the other way around. I pushed through the steel door into the psychiatric wing and immediately regretted wearing heels. The corridor swallowed the sound of them.

Click.

Click.

Click.

Every step echoed beneath fluorescent lights that buzzed overhead, making the place feel less like a medical facility and more like a tomb that someone had forgotten to bury.

“Mara.”

I looked over my shoulder.

Dr. Bennett stood at the nurses’ station, holding a file against his chest. He was my supervisor, though he preferred to call himself my mentor whenever he wanted to remind me that I was young enough to be his daughter.

“Yes?”

He glanced down the corridor.

“You’re taking Vale.”

I stopped.

There were names in Blackridge that staff learned quickly.

Some were attached to gang leaders.

Some to murderers.

Some to men who had been in and out of the facility so often that the guards knew their families.

And then there was Damian Vale.

I had heard his name during orientation.

Everyone had.

“He’s been transferred to your caseload?” I asked.

“Temporary.”

“Why?”

Bennett’s expression changed slightly.

Not fear.

Something closer to caution.

“His previous therapist requested reassignment.”

“Why?”

“She didn’t give a reason.”

I stared at him.

“That doesn’t make me feel better.”

“It wasn’t supposed to.”

He handed me the file.

I caught it with one hand.

The folder was thinner than I expected.

“That’s it?”

“His psychological history is extensive. His current file isn’t.”

I opened it.

VALE, DAMIAN.AGE: 31.CONVICTION: MURDER.SENTENCE: LIFE WITHOUT PAROLE.

I read the next line.

Then read it again.

Classification: Maximum Security.

I turned the page.

There wasn’t much else.

No lengthy psychiatric diagnosis.

No pages of childhood trauma.

No neat explanation for why a man became capable of killing another human being.

Just clinical language.

Controlled.

Uncooperative.

Highly intelligent.

Manipulative tendencies.

Potentially dangerous.

I closed the file.

“Why was he transferred to therapy?”

Bennett’s gaze held mine.

“Because he asked for you.”

The corridor seemed to become quieter.

“Excuse me?”

“You’ve been assigned to him.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“I know.”

My fingers tightened around the folder.

“He asked for me?”

“Specifically.”

“How does he even know who I am?”

Bennett didn’t answer.

I looked at the file again.

There was a photograph attached to the inside cover.

I had seen photographs of inmates before.

Usually mug shots.

Eyes flat.

Expressions blank.

Damian Vale’s photograph was different.

Not because he was smiling.

He wasn’t.

It was because he looked directly into the camera like he knew the person taking the picture would eventually show it to someone else.

Like he was waiting for me to see it.

Dark hair.

Sharp cheekbones.

A scar cutting through his left eyebrow.

And eyes so pale they looked almost silver beneath the harsh prison lighting.

I shut the file.

“Absolutely not.”

Bennett raised an eyebrow.

“You haven’t met him.”

“That’s never stopped me from saying no.”

“Mara.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

He lowered his voice.

“Whatever you think you know about him, forget it. Your job is to assess him, not judge him.”

“I don’t judge my patients.”

“Good.”

His eyes dropped to the file.

“Because Vale is very good at making people believe they understand him.”

I looked toward the reinforced door at the end of the corridor.

“Then why assign him to me?”

Bennett hesitated.

And that was when I knew there was something he wasn’t telling me.

“Because,” he said eventually, “you’re the first therapist he’s agreed to see.”

My stomach tightened.

I hated that.

Not because I was frightened.

Because I was curious.

Curiosity was dangerous in a place like Blackridge.

I knew that.

I’d been warned.

Still, ten minutes later, I was sitting across from Damian Vale.

The interview room was exactly as miserable as I expected.

Two chairs.

One metal table.

A camera mounted in the corner.

A thick sheet of reinforced glass separating me from the door.

Damian sat opposite me, his wrists cuffed in front of him.

He wasn’t what I expected.

That bothered me more than if he had been.

There were no obvious signs of violence.

No restless movements.

No twitching fingers.

No angry expression.

He simply sat there.

Calm.

Too calm.

His black prison uniform looked almost absurd against him.

His shoulders were broad.

His posture relaxed.

His hands rested loosely in his lap.

And his eyes—

His eyes were already on me.

I sat down.

He didn’t look away.

“Mr. Vale.”

Nothing.

I placed my clipboard on the table.

“My name is Dr. Mara Voss.”

“I know.”

My pen stopped.

His voice was deeper than I expected.

Low.

Smooth.

Almost conversational.

I forced myself to continue.

“Do you know why you’re here?”

“Because you wanted to meet me.”

I looked up.

“I didn’t request this appointment.”

“No.”

He leaned back.

“I did.”

Something cold slid down my spine.

I kept my expression neutral.

“Why?”

His mouth curved.

Not quite a smile.

More like the idea of one.

“I wanted to see if you were real.”

I frowned.

“That’s an unusual reason to request therapy.”

“I have unusual reasons for most things.”

“Such as?”

His eyes moved over my face.

Slowly.

Not in a way that was overtly sexual.

That would’ve been easier.

It was clinical.

Observant.

Like he was cataloguing details.

My hair.

My eyes.

The slight crease between my brows.

The way my thumb rested against my pen.

I suddenly became aware of every movement I made.

“You’re uncomfortable,” he said.

“No.”

“Lie.”

I stared at him.

He smiled properly this time.

There it was.

The first crack.

Something dangerous beneath the calm.

“You’re very confident.”

“I’m observant.”

“There’s a difference.”

“Not when you’re me.”

I wrote something on my clipboard.

His eyes followed my pen.

“What did you write?”

“That’s confidential.”

“You’re not writing anything.”

My pen stopped.

I slowly looked up.

He was smiling again.

“You didn’t even look at the paper,” he said.

I glanced down.

He was right.

My clipboard was blank.

I hadn’t written a single word.

I hated that he had noticed.

“You’re trying to intimidate me.”

“No.”

“Then what are you doing?”

His gaze settled on mine.

“Getting to know you.”

“I’m not your therapist so you can get to know me.”

“No.”

His voice softened.

“I’m seeing how long it takes before you stop pretending you don’t want to know me.”

Silence.

For one strange second, I forgot the camera in the corner.

Forgot the guards stationed outside.

Forgot the thick glass.

Forgot that the man sitting across from me had been convicted of murder.

Then I remembered.

I straightened.

“This isn’t a game, Mr. Vale.”

“I know.”

“You’re an inmate in a maximum-security prison.”

“I know.”

“You’re here because you’re required to participate in a psychological assessment.”

“No.”

My brows pulled together.

“No?”

“I asked to be here.”

“Why?”

He looked at me.

Really looked at me.

And suddenly I understood why his previous therapist had requested reassignment.

It wasn’t because Damian Vale shouted.

It wasn’t because he threatened people.

It wasn’t even because he’d killed someone.

It was because he made silence feel intimate.

He leaned forward.

The chain between his cuffs gave a quiet metallic sound.

“Because,” he said, “I’ve been dreaming about you.”

My blood went cold.

I stared at him.

He watched the reaction cross my face.

“What?”

His expression didn’t change.

“You heard me.”

“I’ve never met you.”

“I know.”

“Then how could you possibly—”

“I said dreaming.”

I swallowed.

“Dreams aren’t evidence of anything.”

“I didn’t say they were.”

“Then why tell me?”

His gaze dropped briefly to my mouth.

It was so quick I almost convinced myself I had imagined it.

Almost.

“Because,” he murmured, “you asked me to tell you the truth.”

I hadn’t.

Not yet.

But perhaps that was the first lie he wanted me to believe.

I closed my folder.

The session wasn’t supposed to end for another thirty-seven minutes.

I didn’t care.

“We’re done.”

Damian’s smile disappeared.

For the first time, something real moved across his face.

Disappointment.

“No.”

I stood.

He didn’t.

“That’s not your decision.”

“It will be.”

I looked toward the door.

The guard outside immediately straightened.

I gathered my things.

Then Damian spoke again.

“Mara.”

I froze.

He had never been given permission to call me that.

I turned slowly.

His pale eyes held mine through the glass.

“Check your dreams tonight.”

My stomach dropped.

“Why?”

That almost-smile returned.

“Because next time, I’ll be in them.”

The door opened behind me.

I walked out.

I didn’t look back.

Not until I reached the end of the corridor.

And when I finally did—

Damian Vale was still watching me through the glass.

Like he knew I would turn around.

Like he’d been waiting for it.

And for the first time since I started working at Blackridge, I understood something terrifying.

The rule wasn’t to remember who was behind the glass.

The rule was to remember that the glass went both ways.