Next to him, Davis slept on.

 

He rubbed the back of his head and tried to make sense of what had happened

between them.

 

But he couldn’t. He had always imagined that he had left humanity behind when

they had changed him. And he had thought having sex with a woman impossible.

 

Before he’d viciously killed a man in a bar fight and gone to prison for ten

years, he had killed others. Only he’d never been caught. He had no fear. But he

also had nothing else that would inhibit him from taking another’s life.

 

He had read of serial killers who were missing something critical in their

frontal lobes. It was the significant difference that made one normal or made

one a monster. Just a piece of DNA lacking or forming the wrong sequence. Or a

lobe not quite as developed as it should be. You went from mainstream to Jeffrey

Dahmer.

 

And that’s what they did to me. I was born right and they made me wrong.

 

But ten years in prison had given Rogers something he thought he would never

have. An opportunity to be away from anyone he might have otherwise killed. A

buffer of bars and guards. It had given him time to think, to regain a measure

of control.