Cassian
That night, I read Wren Hollow's file for the first time.
I read it in my small on-campus apartment, the one I kept for nights when sessions ran late and the drive home to my empty house felt like too much. The apartment was sparse by design—a bed, a desk, bookshelves filled with journals and texts. No photographs. No personal touches. No evidence that anyone lived here at all.
I'd learned long ago that attachments were weaknesses, and weaknesses got people killed.
The file was thick. Thicker than most. Thicker than it should have been for a twenty-four-year-old who'd spent most of his life invisible.
I poured whiskey into a glass—the good stuff, the one indulgence I allowed myself—and opened the folder.
Name: Wren Elias Hollow
Date of Birth: October 14th (now 24)
Age at intake: 22
Charge: Three counts first-degree murder
Status: Awaiting trial, held for psychiatric evaluation at Blackwood Psychiatric Hospital
I turned the page.
Background:
Wren Hollow entered the foster care system at age four after his mother, Celia Hollow, was found dead in their apartment. Official cause of death: overdose. Heroin, they said. Enough to stop a heart.
But there was more, buried in the fine print of the police report. Neighbors reported hearing arguments the night before. A man's voice. Loud. Threatening. Celia's voice, softer, pleading. Then silence.
No one was ever charged. No father was ever listed. No relatives ever claimed him.
Wren was found the next morning by a social worker doing a wellness check. He was sitting on the floor next to his mother's body, according to the report. He wasn't crying. Wasn't screaming. Was just... sitting. When the social worker asked if he was okay, he looked up at her with those silver eyes and said, "Mommy's sleeping."
They took him away that day. He never went back.
The next eighteen years were a catalog of system failures. Seven foster homes. Two group homes. Three reports of running away. Minor theft charges as a teenager—shoplifting, breaking and entering, nothing violent. He was described by social workers as "quiet," "withdrawn," "unusually compliant."
One note from a foster parent stopped me cold. It was handwritten, scanned into the file, the ink faded.
"Wren is the easiest child I've ever had. Too easy. He watches everything. He never cries. He never asks for anything. Sometimes I forget he's in the room. That's the thing—he makes you forget he's there. But he's always watching. Always. I caught him standing in my bedroom doorway at 3 AM once, just watching me sleep. When I asked what he was doing, he said, 'Making sure you're safe.' I believed him. That's the scary part. I actually believed him."
That placement lasted four months. No reason given for the disruption.
I underlined the sentence with my fingernail.
He makes you forget he's there. But he's always watching. Always.
I thought about the way he'd looked at me through the window. The way his eyes had found mine instantly, unerringly, like he'd known exactly where to look.
Always watching.
I turned to the next section.
The Crimes:
Three men. Three murders. Eighteen months apart.
Victim One: Marcus Webb (no relation to the psychiatrist)
Age: 34
Occupation: High school teacher
Found in his apartment on a Tuesday morning. Blunt force trauma to the head. The medical examiner counted seventeen blows. Overkill, they called it. Personal. The victim's hands showed defensive wounds—he'd fought back. But the killer was stronger. Faster. Hungrier.
No forced entry. No witnesses. No suspects.
Victim Two: Daniel Cross
Age: 37
Occupation: Accountant
Found in his home on a Sunday evening. Same method. Same overkill. Twenty-three blows this time. The victim's face was unrecognizable, according to the crime scene photos. The detective's notes mentioned that the killer had stopped long after the victim was dead.
No forced entry. No witnesses. No suspects.
Victim Three: Thomas Moreau
Age: 39
Occupation: Restaurant owner
Found in his apartment on a Thursday night. Same method. Same overkill. But this time, there were fingerprints.
Wren's fingerprints.
He'd worked as a delivery driver for a local restaurant—the only legitimate job he'd ever held, according to his employment history. Moreau had ordered food the night of his death. Wren made the delivery. His prints were on the doorframe, the kitchen counter, and one item the police wouldn't release to the press.
A photograph frame.
Turned facedown on the nightstand.
Containing a photo of the victim with his young daughter.
The detective's notes said: "Killer turned the photo face down. Didn't want the girl watching? Or didn't want to see her face while he did what he did? Either way, it's the only thing out of place in the entire apartment. Everything else is pristine. Killer cleaned up. Wiped surfaces. But left the prints on the doorframe. Left the prints on the counter. Left the prints on that frame. Like he wanted to be caught. Or like he didn't know he'd left them there."
Wren was picked up two days later. No resistance. No attempt to run. When they read him his rights, he asked, "What did I do?"
When they told him, he started crying.
Not the calculated tears of a manipulator, according to the arresting officer. Not the performance of someone trying to get sympathy. Just... crying. Silent tears running down his face while he sat in the back of the police car, looking out the window at nothing.
He'd been in Blackwood ever since.
I poured more whiskey. Read on.
Interviews:
The transcript of Wren's third interview was included in full.
Detective Morrison: "Wren, we have your fingerprints in that apartment. We have you on the delivery log. We have you."
Wren: "I delivered the food. I remember that. I remember knocking. I remember him opening the door. He was nice. He tipped me five dollars."
Detective Morrison: "And then what?"
Wren: "I don't know."
Detective Morrison: "You don't know."
Wren: "I lose time sometimes. When I'm stressed. When things are too much. I just... I go away. And when I come back, hours are gone."
Detective Morrison: "That's convenient."
Wren: "It's not convenient. It's terrifying. I wake up places and I don't know how I got there. I find things I don't remember writing. I have bruises I don't remember getting. I'm scared of myself."
Detective Morrison: "Are you scared because you know what you did?"
A long pause. Then, in parentheses: (Subject begins crying silently. Continues for approximately two minutes before speaking again.)
Wren: "I'm scared because I don't know. I don't know what I did. I don't know what I'm capable of. I don't know if I'm a good person who bad things happened to, or a bad person who's been fooling everyone, including myself. I don't know anything anymore. And that's worse than knowing. That's so much worse."
The transcript ended there. A note from the detective at the bottom:
"I've been doing this job for twenty years. I've interviewed killers, rapists, child abusers. I've heard every lie, every excuse, every performance. This kid—I don't know. If he's faking, he's the best I've ever seen. And if he's not faking... then we've got a different problem entirely."
I set the transcript down. Rubbed my eyes.
The boy in the yard—Wren—had looked at me like I was salvation. Like I was the answer to a question he'd been asking his whole life.
And I, who'd spent thirteen years building walls against exactly this kind of pull, had felt something shift in my chest. Something I couldn't name and couldn't control.
Psychological Evaluations:
Three psychiatrists. Three opinions. Three different ways of looking at the same boy.
Dr. Helena Vance (Court-appointed):
"Subject displays significant signs of trauma-related dissociation. His inability to recall the nights in question may be genuine, though definitive proof remains elusive. His affect during sessions is consistently childlike and vulnerable, which could indicate arrested emotional development due to early trauma—or could indicate sophisticated manipulation. His history of running away and minor theft suggests an aversion to authority and structure, but no history of violence prior to these charges. I cannot rule out malingering. Further observation recommended."
Dr. Vance was careful. Noncommittal. The kind of doctor who never stuck her neck out. I'd read her other reports—she was competent but cautious. She saw something in Wren that made her hedge.
Dr. Marcus Webb (Defense):
"Wren Hollow is a profoundly damaged young man with no history of violence and a documented pattern of dissociative episodes dating back to early childhood. His apparent youthfulness and emotional vulnerability are not acts—they are the result of arrested development due to severe, sustained childhood trauma. His IQ tests in the average range, but his emotional intelligence is that of a much younger person. He is not capable of the planning, the rage, or the sustained violence these murders required. In my professional opinion, he is innocent—either of the acts themselves, or of conscious knowledge of them."
Dr. Webb was defense-side. He got paid to find the broken ones, the ones who couldn't be held responsible. But his notes were detailed. He'd spent twelve hours with Wren over four sessions. He'd written about the way Wren's eyes went distant when discussing certain topics. About the small, unconscious gestures—curling inward, covering his neck, flinching at sudden sounds. Trauma responses. Genuine ones.
Dr. Priya Sharma (Prosecution):
"Subject meets criteria for antisocial personality disorder with comorbid dissociative features. His charm, his apparent vulnerability, and his uncanny ability to inspire protective instincts in others are entirely consistent with a manipulative presentation. His claimed memory loss is convenient and unverifiable. His history of 'lost time' appears only after he became a suspect—no medical records document these episodes prior to his arrest. I believe he is dangerous. I believe he knows exactly what he did. I believe his tears, his confusion, his apparent fear of himself are performances designed to elicit sympathy and avoid accountability. And I believe he will kill again if given the opportunity."
Dr. Sharma was prosecution's favorite. She was brilliant and brutal and she hated being wrong. Her report was full of words like "manipulative" and "calculated" and "predatory." She wrote about Wren's "performance of vulnerability" and his "weaponized innocence" and his "predator's patience."
Predator's patience.
I thought about five years of waiting. About a lecture he'd remembered in perfect detail. About the way he'd looked at me through that window—not with surprise, not with curiosity, but with recognition.
Like he'd known I was coming.
Like he'd been waiting.
Three doctors. Three opinions. And Wren Hollow, caught in the middle, looking up at me through a window with eyes like pale silver and a smile like hope.
I closed the file. Finished my whiskey.
My first session with him was scheduled for Thursday at 10 AM.
I had two days to prepare.
Two days to remind myself what I was: a doctor. An evaluator. A man who understood darkness because he'd lived beside it his whole life, not because he wanted to join it.
Two days to forget the way that smile had made me feel.
Two days to forget the way my hand had pressed against the glass.
Two days to forget those silver eyes, watching me from across the yard, waiting.
I failed before I started.
I knew it even then.
Somehow, I think I'd known it from the moment I walked into that observation corridor and tasted blood in the air.
Somehow, I think I'd known it my whole life.
That someone was coming.
That someone was waiting.
That when they finally arrived, I wouldn't be able to look away.
I poured another glass of whiskey. Raised it to the empty room.
"To obsession," I murmured.
And I drank.