Angel of Darkness by Katy Munger

his, but the orderly continued to taunt him. ‘I’ve seen you at the back fence,’ he told Parker. ‘Don’t think I don’t know what’s going on.’
    At this, Parker lunged for the orderly but four other staff members had arrived by then and they pulled Parker off. They led him away, casting glances at the red-haired orderly that made plain they had little patience for either his methods or his judgment.
    I followed Parker, curious as to where they might take him to calm him down. But it turned out that he was scheduled for a session with his psychiatrist. He was taken to a spacious room where a short, tubby man awaited him, notebook in hand, his legs crossed precisely as he perched on the edge of a leather chair. He gestured for Parker to sit on the couch across from him.
    Two of the orderlies forced Parker to sit and started to handcuff him to the legs of the leather couch.
    â€˜Is that really necessary?’ the psychiatrist asked, casting a thin smile at Otis Parker as if to say, ‘I’m on your side. Isn’t it awful how backward these brutish men are?’
    The psychiatrist had all the degrees in the world, but he was a fool.
    â€˜Yes, it’s necessary,’ one of the orderlies said. As if to make his point, he pulled on one of the chains that attached a couch leg to Parker’s wrist, forcing Parker to wince.
    The shrink glared at the orderly, but said nothing. Parker looked mildly interested in the disagreement between the two men. I knew he was filing the information away, just in case he could use it to his advantage later.
    The two orderlies left the room and stationed themselves outside the door, in case something went awry. I wondered what this session was all about. Was it an attempt to rehabilitate Parker or a court-mandated session to assess whether or not Parker was any better than he had been when admitted?
    I was not keen on getting closer to Parker’s mind. I knew what I would find there. But I was interested in how much he had fooled the psychiatrist sitting across from him, and if he would be able to resist revealing his connection to Darcy Swan’s murder.
    I found out the answer to my first question when the psychiatrist put his notebook aside and leaned forward, clasping his hands together as he stared at Parker with what he thought was professional detachment but I decided was perilously close to admiration. The shrink was not a big man. In fact, he was barely five and a half feet tall and he was plump in that way people are when they’ve spent a lifetime unable to resist overeating. He could not take his eyes off Parker. I had seen that look before. People hated following the unwritten rules of their world each day and often secretly admired those who ignored them. Especially those who did it without apology. The psychiatrist had fallen for Otis Parker’s charisma, mistaking an excess of testosterone for evidence that Parker was somehow a superior kind of human being worth saving.
    He’d learn soon enough.
    â€˜What’s this I hear about an altercation?’ the shrink asked. ‘Was it with the same orderly as before?’
    Parker managed to look downright perplexed. His trademark shit-eating grin faded and he looked quite sad, as if he could not understand the injustices visited upon him. ‘I do everything he asks,’ Parker explained. ‘But it’s never good enough. The guy has some kind of complex about me. He thinks I’m faking it. Sometimes I don’t even feel like going through with my therapy because of him. What’s the use?’
    Oh, he knew what buttons to push. The psychiatrist nearly hopped in his agitation. He could not, I noticed, stop staring at Parker’s immense biceps nor refrain from glancing at Parker’s narrow torso and powerful thighs. I wasn’t sure it mattered at all what Parker said; the shrink was under the spell of Parker’s sheer physical power. He was