Chapter 35 Geneva
GENEVA
Two weeks later…
The lights buzz softly overhead as I sit at my desk, the hum a faint but persistent reminder of reality. Dr. Linton’s words from my last session loop through my mind like a mantra, steady and relentless: Set the boundary. Hold the line.
I take a deep breath, willing myself to focus.
My laptop screen illuminates the otherwise muted office, the open file staring back at me like a dare.
Slowly, deliberately, I click on his photo.
Ghost’s face fills the screen, his expression as infuriatingly smug as it is captivating.
It’s a test, I tell myself. A deliberate exercise.
Small doses of temptation to practice building the mental distance I so desperately need.
Feel it, but don’t act on it.
I lean forward, my elbows resting on the desk, and force myself to study the photo like it’s nothing more than another case.
Another subject. The hard angles of his face and the intensity in his eyes are all there, frozen in a single frame, daring me to unravel what lies beneath.
And I hate how easily it draws me in, how even in a static image he manages to hold power over me.
I scroll through the notes I’ve painstakingly compiled, clinging to the words as if they’re a lifeline. Each sentence is a reminder, a tether to reality: Dangerous. Manipulative. A psychopath. Traits I’ve dissected and cataloged, the same traits that should keep me grounded.
But as I skim the lines, my gaze keeps drifting back to his photo, as if it holds answers the text can’t provide.
My stomach churns, a mixture of frustration and need.
He’s more than what’s written in this file, more than what the mugshot captures, and that’s what terrifies me the most. Because it’s that more which has me prisoner and refuses to let go.
My fingers hover over the trackpad, debating whether to close the file, to put the temptation away. But closing it feels like running, and running means I’ve lost control. I need to face it, face him, in small doses if that’s what it takes to fortify myself.
Feel it, but don’t act on it.
The words are hollow, even as I mentally repeat them.
How do I not act on something that already consumes me?
Every line I’ve written about Ghost, every session I’ve spent trying to understand him, has led to this moment, where the boundaries between professional and personal are no longer blurred but shattered.
My chest tightens as I force myself to focus on the facts, the clinical detachment I’ve trained for years to maintain.
His history. His diagnosis. The patterns of manipulation.
It’s all here, laid bare in my notes. Evidence of who he is, what he is.
But even as I read, the memory of him flashes in my mind.
The vulnerability, the rawness. The tender emotions he isn’t supposed to be capable of.
I grip the edge of the desk.
“He’s a psychopath,” I whisper, as if saying it aloud will make it easier to believe. “He’s dangerous.”
And yet, staring at his photo, I can’t shake the truth that keeps gnawing at me: He’s not dangerous to me in the way everyone assumes. Not physically. Not in the ways that make sense. He’s dangerous because he makes me question everything. My professionalism. My judgment. My very sense of self.
I let go of the desk to scroll down, forcing myself to look at the notes instead of his face.
Clinical facts. Behavioral patterns. My observations, written with care and objectivity.
At least, that’s what I tell myself. The smirk in his photo is still there, lingering in the corner of my vision, taunting me.
I close my eyes, take a steadying breath, and open them again. I won’t let him win. Not today. Not in this moment.
With my heart pounding in my chest, I close the file abruptly. The small victory feels far less satisfying than it should. But it’s a start. A single step in a battle I’m not sure I know how to win.
My laptop pings with a new email, jolting me out of my thoughts. The subject line catches my eye: “Keynote Speech Confirmation: Dr. Geneva Andrews.”
Holy Shit. I forgot about that.
Clicking the email open, I skim the message quickly.
Dear Dr. Andrews,
I hope this email finds you well. We are absolutely delighted to have you as our keynote speaker for the Annual Behavioral Science Fundraiser tomorrow night.
Your groundbreaking insights into criminal psychology, particularly your recent work with high-risk inmates, promise to be a highlight of the evening.
Your profile on the inmate you’ve referred to as “Ghost” has generated immense interest among attendees and supporters.
The way you’ve unraveled his psychopathy and the intricate nuances of his behavior is both fascinating and vital to understanding the complexities of criminal profiling.
We are excited to hear you expand on these findings during your address.
This event will not only showcase the importance of behavioral science but also serve to raise critical funds for ongoing research and education in the field. Your expertise and perspective will undoubtedly inspire and resonate with our audience.
Thank you once again for lending your voice and expertise to this important cause. Please don’t hesitate to contact me if you require any resources or support as you prepare for the event.
Warm regards,
Dr. Melanie Corbin
Chair, Department of Behavioral Sciences
The email stares back at me from the screen, its words neatly typed, each one tightening the invisible noose around my neck. My fingers hover over the mouse, motionless, as if clicking away will somehow lessen the weight pressing against me.
The way you’ve unraveled his psychopathy and the intricate nuances of his behavior is both fascinating and vital to understanding the complexities of criminal behavior.
Fascinating. That’s the word they’ve chosen. They’re enthralled by the work I’ve done, the clinical precision I’ve supposedly brought to studying Ghost’s mind. But I can’t stop replaying our last moment together, the look in his eyes, or the way he kissed me.
Ghost is more than fascinating. He’s damn near irresistible.
I let out a shaky breath, slumping in my chair. The email’s praise is a spotlight I want to shrink away from. They have no idea how I continued blurring the lines between me and Ghost until they became nonexistent.
They can’t know. That thought is immediate, sharp, and terrifying. If they knew how much of myself I’ve already sacrificed to understand Ghost—how personal it’s become—they wouldn’t be congratulating me. They’d be condemning me.
The ticking clock on the wall is deafening in the silence of my office. I press my fingers to my temples, trying to force the tension out of my head. The room feels too small, too bright, like the walls are closing in.
Get your shit together.
I glance at the email again, my eyes scanning the polite words, the thinly veiled demand for more. They want me to stand on a stage and tell them about Ghost, to make him a spectacle to satisfy their curiosity. But how can I talk about him like that now, as though he’s just another file on my desk?
My gaze shifts to his file, the notes glaring up at me. Diagnoses. Traits. Behavioral patterns. All of it meticulously documented.
None of it captures what I saw in that interview room.
The pain.
The longing.
The raw, undeniable humanity he shouldn’t be capable of.
My computer pings again with a new notification, snapping me out of my spiraling thoughts. I glance at the subject line, but I can’t bring myself to open it. Instead, I close my laptop and stare up at the ceiling.
I can’t let Ghost derail me, not when so much is riding on this keynote. My career depends on it. My reputation. But as much as I try to focus on what matters—what should matter—all I can think about is him.
The way he looked at me. The way he said my name.
The way I didn’t want to leave.