Hope… Such a nonscientific word. But, nothing is ruined yet. Blakely is resilient. Now I must start again. Analyze the data and draw conclusions. Accept or reject my hypothesis. Modify the hypothesis if needed. Reproduce the experiment until there are no discrepancies between observations and theory.

Reproducibility.

That is the crux of the scientific method.

I find my feet wandering back toward the cabin, my steps quickening to match the eager beat of my heart. There’s so much that needs to be done… But first, I need to revive my subject.

The cabin appears just over the hill, and I remember the day Mary and I found the little weathered house. We’d been hiking the woods on one of our annual retreats. A way to get away from the city and the noise and her patients. To recharge.

We stumbled on the cottage and Mary instantly fell in love. She wondered why she’d never thought about owning a property outside of the city before, and she decided she had to have it.

I stop at the wrought iron gate and glance at my pewter watch, the memory so fresh my chest burns like I’ve swallowed acid. She willed me the cabin with the condition that I had to continue to visit our place once a year.

I push the gate open. I did more than just respect her memory by vacationing here to recharge—I built a whole damn experiment to make sure her tattered and denounced reputation would one day be restored.

On the day that I publish my results, with the data and proof to back my findings, the name of the treatment will be logged as Jenkins’ Trial.

After Mary’s murder, I studied Grayson Sullivan. As sadistic as he is, I admit, he’s a fascinating subject—sort of the basis inspiration for my experiment. The way he forced his victims to face their sins, used their own crimes against them. The psychology of it was appealing. I asked myself how I could utilize his method. How could I make the unfeeling thing feel?

Of course, he made a fatal mistake when he made my sister one of his victims. I can’t undo that, but what Sullivan stole by taking her life too soon from this world, I’ll restore. I’ll give her a strong legacy. I owe her that much.

As I reach the chamber, the silence is worrisome. Blakely has remained bound and chained to the wall, but allowed to move freely within the confines of the room behind the curtain. I provided clothes, food, water, and even her preference in coffee. No utensils or any sharp objects, of course, but there is a compost toilet behind another privacy curtain. A cot set up in the corner and blankets.

I’ve given her every comfort and yet, as I slide the canvas aside, I find her in the same position that she’s been in since I released her from the gurney. Seated on the cot, her back to the wall, legs tucked close to her chest.