The intensive-treatment level felt particularly sinister today, the pressure of the air seeming to push in on Bruce from all sides. As he neared Madeleine’s cell, he chanced a peek in through her glass window. She was, as expected, alone again, this time standing in the middle of her cell and studying something on the ceiling that he couldn’t see.
He let his gaze stay on her for a moment longer, hoping she would notice him. When she still didn’t stir, he pretended to drop his mop with a loud clatter, then picked it up again. He straightened, glancing in her window to see if she was paying any attention.
She wasn’t.
Maybe the first time had been the last time. Bruce felt a strange disappointment at that.
“You’re clumsier than I remember.”
The voice was sudden and startling, an echo of his nightmare—but when Bruce whirled and looked through the glass, Madeleine still had her face turned up to the ceiling, as if ignoring him. She continued to speak, though. “You’re not scheduled for this level today. Why are you here?”
She kept track of his days? A train of thoughts rushed through Bruce. He could say, of course, that the asylum had changed his schedule—but it seemed like something she would see straight through, something that would alert her right away to the fact that he was here to secretly interrogate her. So he decided on a different tactic. “I’m not supposed to be,” he replied, keeping his voice low. He edged closer to her window. “My supervisor is out for the day.”
At that, Madeleine arched her neck and rolled her head back. Her eyes were closed, her lashes curving gently against her cheeks. She had pulled her black curtain of hair over one shoulder and woven it into a thick, shining fishtail of a braid, and the end of it was gradually coming undone without a tie. She turned to look at him. “Well, aren’t you feeling rebellious? Did you come to thank me for my advice?”
Her advice? As if that had triggered him to attack Richard? How could she even tell that something had happened? When he looked through her window again, she was now looking back at him. Her eyes chilled him as they did the very first time.
He had to be careful with his expressions around her. She read far more in them than he could ever expect a person to.
Bruce checked to see that no one else was watching before stepping a bit closer to Madeleine’s cell. “I came here because you spoke to me last time,” he replied. “And you almost always have a crowd of police in there, trying to persuade you to talk.”
Her eyes returned to searching the ceiling. “And you’re curious?”
“Yes.”
She tilted her head in a slow, methodical manner that lifted the hairs on the back of his neck. “What are you so curious about?”
How could someone who had brutally killed three victims make such calm, collected gestures? Did she never dwell on the deaths? Or toss restlessly from nightmares? “I heard about the murders you committed,” he said.
“Did you, now?” She blinked once at him. “And how does that make you feel about me?”
“I’m not sure yet. I’ve never spoken to a killer before.”
“Oh yes, we Arkham inmates are the scary ones,” Madeleine murmured, distracted, turning her attention to the ceiling again. “How many lives have you billionaires ruined?”
Bruce felt a cut of anger, even as her sarcastic words sent ripples through him. False comparison. She was messing with his mind. “Why did you kill those people?”
She shrugged again, falling silent, and her nonchalance annoyed him further. “What are you staring at?” he asked, nodding at the ceiling for emphasis.
Madeleine pursed her lips, considering. “The security cams wired into the ceiling,” she said aloud, as if purposely meaning for someone to hear.
“Why are you looking at them?”
“To break them, of course.”
Bruce eyed her warily. She was playing a trick, although he couldn’t quite see her hand. “Maybe not the best idea to say that out loud.”
“Why not? It wouldn’t be hard. This is old technology, you see?” She pointed to the wires running along the ceilings, secured within metal piping, ending in the small, round cameras embedded outside each cell door. “All you’d need to do to disable the system is to use the right scrambler, set at the right frequency. Any device within its signal range could knock them out.” She tapped a slender finger once against her temple. “Never trust tech. Anything made to your advantage can also be used against you.”
Bruce listened in confusion and fascination. She was telling this directly to whoever sat on the other end of that security camera, monitoring her—it was almost as if she was toying with that operator like a cat toyed with its mouse, daring them to be on the defensive, maybe even distracting them from what she actually wanted to do. Or maybe she was just having fun. Bruce’s eyes darted to the bed in her cell, the only piece of furniture she had. If she jumped on it at the right angle, she could probably reach the security cam—but she hadn’t done it yet.
“Are you trying to get them to take away your bed?” he said incredulously.
There was something unreadable about her face as her expressions shifted from one to another, like the shapes of clouds before a thunderstorm. “Are these really the questions you came here to ask me today?” she asked.
Bruce’s gaze went to her slender white fingers as she began to weave the loose ends of her braid tight again. “Why are you talking to me?” he asked. “You haven’t said a word to anyone in months.”
“Ah.” Madeleine’s smile widened. “That’s more like it.” She tossed her braid casually over her shoulder, the weave loosening once more into a sea of waves, and yawned. “They gave you a new uniform today, didn’t they? Your first one was too big on you, and a slightly different shade of blue. Did your supervisors have a change of heart? It took them weeks to finally hand you a better-fitting one.”
Bruce glanced down at his clothes. He hadn’t even noticed the difference. How long had she been watching him? “Good eye,” he said, looking back up at her.
She beamed at him, seeming genuinely pleased. Then she said, “I hope the police heard that through the wire you’re wearing. They have a bad habit of talking to me like I’m a fool.”
She knows about the wire. How?
Bruce cursed inwardly. He should’ve known better, actually; in fact, Draccon should have. As he fought to keep his expression calm, Madeleine just kept her steady stare on him, waiting for his reaction. There was no point in denying it. You’re clumsier than I remember, she’d said to him just moments earlier. He’d thought she was referring to his dropped mop handle, but now he thought that perhaps she’d been talking about the wire all along.
At least now Draccon had heard proof of her speaking to him.
“How did you know?” he asked.