Chapter Five
Could she? Sage froze in her seat and stared at Alexander. The gorgeous, infuriating man smelled irresistible…lickable. That cedar and coconut scent of his drove her crazy with want, to the point she’d had to get herself off in the shower or she wouldn’t have been able to think clearly.
Had he heard her moans? She hadn’t exactly been quiet, much to her distress. Fingers crossed he hadn’t. If he had, hopefully he wouldn’t say anything. If he confronted her, how would she explain the situation?
Shit.
On top of that, could she rely on him when it counted? He assured her she could. But people said a lot of things.
He hadn’t shown even a hint of reliability in the past. Yet something told her it would take exceptional circumstances for him to break his promise to her now. They’d just gotten reacquainted, though, so she didn’t know that for sure.
But people changed. If she was a reasonable person, she had to factor that in. Ultimately, she should give him the benefit of any lingering doubt. One thing she knew with certainty—the guy had always excelled at playing into her wants, her needs, her emotions.
After he’d caught her in her skimpy underwear, she could hardly look at him. She had, however, glimpsed his striking blue eyes traveling slowly over her semi-naked body with unmistakable yearning and appreciation. It had made her lady bits moist and her clit throb for attention. If she hadn’t been running behind, she’d have rubbed another one out.
But his behavior could have been a base, primal reaction—a virile man physically responding to an almost nude woman. Who knew how long it’d been since he’d indulged in intimate female company?
Sage shouldn’t let him burrow into her psyche, tap into her unmet desires. She had to be as objective as possible, ensure she didn’t screw with his mental health or hers, except she lacked full control—not that anyone ever really had it.
Chase and Alexander had taken the intruder situation to the extreme, gone off tap, overreacted and it didn’t look like either of them would back down, which meant Alexander would be her shadow for at least two days.
Oh God. A rush of heat consumed her body and she forced herself not to fan her face. She had to redirect her mind to something else, something un-Alexander.
Thankfully, her full caseload of clients popped into her head. In her breaks, she’d check through the files and suss out if any others, on top of her three instinctually earmarked clients, might have a reason to target her or if not, strike them off her suspect list.
It took her a few moments, maybe more, to return to the present, the sexual-tension-filled silence practically combustible. He angled his body and silently studied her, the intensity of his spectacular sky-blue eyes setting off a domino effect of goosebumps across her skin.
“See you later.” Sage flung the door open and rushed out of the car without looking back. She took the lift to her floor, sat behind her desk and powered on her computer, her heart still thumping.
Her mobile buzzed. A text from the same unknown number. Most likely an untraceable burner phone…if the person were smart.
I see you’ve recruited a couple of men, but they can’t protect you. Don’t think they can make you safe.
A shiver reverberated along her spine. Pricked, triggered, she sent a response before her rational mind intervened.
I can look after myself. Always have. Always will. I don’t need to rely on anyone.
We’ll see…
Shit. She shouldn’t have engaged. Too late now.
Whether she wanted to admit it or not, she did require her brother’s support…and Alexander’s, too. With his confirmed promise of assistance, she presumed he’d stick around, provide helpful input, give guidance. He and Chase were seemingly competent, reliable—two of the only people in her social network she could more confidently count on.
Should she message Alexander, tell him what had happened, share her harasser’s phone number, see if he could find out more? Part of her didn’t want to drag him into this, potentially put his life in danger.
She didn’t want to get anyone else ensnared in her mess. But at the same time, the more information he had, the more accurate the picture, the better assessment he could make, the better chance she had of resolving the issue…nip it in the proverbial bud.
Not yet. Her intuition told her to hold off, that being too premature wouldn’t help. She’d do some further investigating first, narrow down choices.
The taunting message sat on her mobile-phone screen, doing its unnerving job. Compelling emotions drove her to delete the text, as if not seeing it meant it hadn’t happened, didn’t exist. But she couldn’t, adding it instead to the ever-growing list of evidence.
Sage sighed and closed her text messaging app, leaving the ambiguous, unresolved threat hanging. Then she focused on reviewing client files that might meet the unsatisfied, vengeful criteria—a distraction and a necessity.
Skimming through her past two years’ worth of patients, the collated information reinforced her initial instincts. The three suspects she’d considered stood out, going by their core issues and unstable, volatile behavior.
Trista Harvey—number one on Sage’s last name, alphabetically arranged list. The woman had been suicidal for months, and a fine line existed between suicide and homicide. It all depended on a person’s mindset.
She’d talked Trista down several times, but seething, unresolved anger and hurt simmered and brewed below the surface. The woman seemed coiled tight, ready for the right trigger to set her off.
Sage had worked on facilitating her to dive into her discomfort, to abrade away the mental and emotional scarring. And Trista had shown signs of progressing. However, who one hundred percent knew the depths of what went on in a person’s head? What they responded to, what influenced their decision-making and their life? As a psychologist, Sage could only hazard a guess and test out her hypotheses in therapy.
Just when she thought Trista had taken a step forward, she’d take two or more back. She’d practically seen the frustration and anger pressurizing the woman like a fizzy drink kept too long in the freezer.
Sage reached the end of Trista’s notes and clicked into the file of the number two suspect on her list.
Miles Knight…obsessed. He’d seemed compelled to engage with her. Latch on. The guy had joined the military young without much job experience, without many significant relationships under his army belt, and had attached himself to Sage almost from their first meeting.
She’d seen it before, guys who read more into her compassion, that typical client-therapist transference. She’d discussed it in depth with her clinical supervisor, and they’d both agreed Sage needed to refer him on. She’d already tried twice, unsuccessfully. Miles had responded as if he hadn’t even heard her, as though her recommendation had rolled right off him, like he had a Teflon veneer.
From what she’d observed, he hadn’t shown any specific stalker signs. No coincidental run-ins with her down the street, and she hadn’t seen him hovering anywhere near her house or outside her office building. But he could have developed highly honed hiding skills.
Sage navigated to the notes of the third and final client on her ‘possibles’ list. Donovan Perdita. Well, not technically a consideration.
His wife.
The poor guy had suicided, died while under Sage’s care. She had never quite gotten over it.
She’d thought she’d made headway, had him rethinking his options. She’d thought she’d successfully talked him through his distress to reach a calmer, more peaceful place. Obviously not. And his grieving wife, Mallory, never failed to pile on the guilt, to reinforce that Sage was responsible.
However, Sage understood the need to blame. It came hand-in-hand with trying to make sense of a difficult situation that would never have clear-cut answers. With Donovan gone, no one could determine the final straw that had driven that life-ending decision. Most likely it was cumulative. Most likely everyone and everything had made an enduring impression.
Trista and Miles were due for review appointments today. Had she fucked them up, too? It could be the tiniest word, the tiniest phrase, the tiniest change in tone or body language, positively reinforcing the wrong thing. Most people had no idea about their impact on others.
Had she skewed their thinking in the name of self-preservation, her own insecurities, her own limited point of view? How would she ever know for sure? Could anyone fully determine their influence on another’s life? How much of that responsibility fell onto the person?
She’d wanted to talk to Mallory, but the woman had done everything in her power to avoid her, other than the initial, angry phone accusations. After what had happened, it wasn’t surprising. Sage just hoped she’d sought out professional help externally, someone she had rapport with to facilitate her to work through her sorrow.
Mallory’s husband had been Sage’s client, so she shouldn’t feel obligated to work on the woman’s issues, yet she couldn’t help it. She struggled seeing anyone in pain.
Sage didn’t want to believe any of her clients, or their significant others, were capable of the veiled threats or were possible suspects.
Sadly, they had the best motive. Crimes perpetrated by a stranger with no link to the victim were unusual. Most deaths could be traced to someone in the person’s acquaintance.
Were her own issues distorting her judgment? Should she mention her concerns to the one man who drove her crazy? In every sense—physically, emotionally, mentally. Alexander would essentially be her roommate, until her brother returned, and even though she didn’t want to admit it, she felt safer with him around.
Like a child’s security blanket, having the big man’s presence acted as peace of mind, an alarm system, a massive deterrent. The one downfall—with him super close and his elite observation skills—he wouldn’t let her hide the full truth.
After a coffee, three back-to-back client appointments then lunch, she needed a nap. She buried her face in her hands and sighed. At least in her office she had time to think at her own pace, time to re-energize.
Once Alexander picked her up, he’d be asking questions. She’d seen it in his eyes. His assessment expertise would have identified that she hadn’t been one-hundred percent transparent. It seemed he had a highly attuned bullshit radar.
However, if she pulled together her possibilities list based on her personal issues and insecurities alone, it wouldn’t be fair. It’d abuse her clients’ trust, encourage the opposite of professional therapeutic rapport.
Before Trista and Miles were due to arrive, she reread Donovan’s progress notes. He’d seen her for six months, almost from the moment he got discharged from military service.
During his last mission in the Middle East, he’d put himself and others in unnecessary danger. His superiors forced him to take leave, for everyone’s sake, and he failed the mental health component of his return-to-work fitness test.
When he came to her, he’d been desperate and depressed, unable to recover from the rejection. He’d been a high-end deer hunter since his teens—knew how to kill, what it took. The realization he couldn’t meet the required warzone standards created a soul-deep, unresolvable hurt. He reported feeling weak, inadequate and unworthy and couldn’t understand how his wife stood by him when he couldn’t stand by himself.
Dying and wanting to die came up a lot in their sessions, and she’d made sure to do thorough suicide screening every time, checking whether he had means as well as intent. He’d assured her that his wife had locked the guns away, making them inaccessible to him, as a safety precaution, and convinced Sage the suicidal ideation remained purely in his head—until she got the hysterical call from his wife.
Mallory had found him, hanging, dead, at their holiday house in the country. Heartbreaking. An image she could never unsee. An image that would probably forever haunt her nighttime and waking hours. It wasn’t the way anyone wanted to remember a loved one.
He’d been Sage’s first-ever successful client suicide. And didn’t that flood her with feelings of inadequacy. What could she have done better? What had she missed? What could she have done differently to prevent his death? How could she have successfully coached him into wanting to live? Could anyone have saved him? They were all questions that would never be answered.
Rationally, she realized she could only act on a client’s disclosure, and Donovan had been selective with what he’d said, secretive. He’d made up his mind. He’d set out to complete one final task, and he’d achieved it, his last act providing him the success he strove for, in a totally warped way.
Her desk phone rang, jolting her out of her helpless, confronting, memories.
Reception.
She answered the call and pressed speaker.
“Trista has arrived.”
“Thanks. Give me a couple minutes then send her in.”
Sage closed Donovan’s file and opened Trista’s. The woman had a reputation as a highly revered doctor who’d been a part of the frontline medical-response staff. She hadn’t just had to deal with the day-to-day risks but also the trauma of seeing severely injured soldiers and not always being able to save them.
That’s where she’d struggled most—her inability to prevent deaths. Each ‘failure’ accumulated, until one small event became the fragile straw that broke the weary camel’s back.
Sage had lost one client, and it had been devastating. She couldn’t imagine the depth of difficulty and despair Trista faced every day, needing to live with what she’d experienced. But she could empathize and help her client develop some meaning that made sense, bringing her down from the emotional ledge.
After the Donovan situation, Sage promised herself she’d be super alert and go with her gut. If she sensed Trista didn’t answer the suicide assessment accurately, she’d refer her immediately to the Crisis Assessment and Treatment—CAT—team. Safety overrode confidentiality.
But today wasn’t simply about Trista’s therapeutic intervention. Sage intended to also gauge any behaviors that might suggest the woman could be her terrorist.
A light rap on the door—her receptionist’s signature knock.
“Come in.” She put on her warm, professional smile and walked over to greet Trista.
The petite woman entered her office, her shoulders rounded, facial expression flat and eyes distant, as though reliving all the atrocities she’d seen—the sad, unfortunate usual.
“Trista, take a seat.”
Sage sat in an adjacent chair, the huge window behind her desk providing an incredibly peaceful view of the sun’s rays glinting off the Yarra River.
“How are you doing?”
“The same.” Trista picked at her bitten-down fingernails and avoided eye contact.
“Have you tried using the meditation app I recommended?”
“A few times.”
“And how did that go?”
“Okay.”
“How about exercise? Have you started at the gym?”
“No.”
“How about walking?”
“Locally. Yes. Two or three times a week.”
“That’s great. It’s an excellent start. Tell me about what else helps you feel better.”
“Alcohol. Casual sex. Comfort food.” She looked Sage in the eye as though to test out whether she’d go into monologue lecture mode.
Trista had named the usual escapism suspects. So if she’d wanted to go for shock value, she’d fallen short. “We’ve spoken about this, and with your medical training, you understand that those strategies may reduce the emotional pain short term, but long term they cause more damage.”
The woman jerked up ramrod straight in her seat, her eyes wild with anger. “What the fuck am I supposed to do then? They’re the only things that help me forget, you know? They make me feel alive. Thirty minutes of peace is better than nothing.”
Trista’s wick, her emotional fuse, seemed to have burned right down to the base. Sage got that. And if she hadn’t had her own recent unsettling experiences, she wouldn’t think twice. Instead, every little change, any little escalation in a client’s behavior, had her on high alert, had that person pegged as a probable suspect.
But she shouldn’t focus on her own problems now, shouldn’t let them skew her professional objectivity. She needed to remain impartial. This was Trista’s session, and she relied on her psychologist’s skills. Sage had to toughen up her cracked resolve and try to redirect the woman into more positive practices.
“It’s normal to revert to quick fixes. However, I recommend more body and mind sustaining routines—continuing to meditate and increasing your exercise, enabling the two to become a new habit. Both have been shown to have great impacts on mood.”
Trista’s shoulders slumped. “I’m not sure I have the patience or motivation. Saying no to my emotional impulses, to instant relief, is almost impossible.”
“It’s not unusual, given what you’ve been through. Starting something new is always daunting. All I’m asking is for you to try. Even the tiniest step forward is a win. Your mind and body will thank you.”
Trista shifted in her chair, as though she’d sat on a bed of cold, sharp, piercing nails. “Fine. I’ll give it a go, but I’m not promising anything.”
“That’s okay. Let’s keep the weekly appointments to check your progress and discuss any limitations and setbacks. Same day and time suit?”
“I guess.”
“If you need to reschedule, call and let me know.” Sage’s lips lifted in her encouraging, reassuring, therapist smile. “Now, anything else you’d like to talk about before we finish for today?”
“Not really.” Which pretty much meant yes, but Trista wasn’t up to it, so Sage wouldn’t push. Not yet. Overwhelmed didn’t even fully capture the woman’s current mindset. She needed small, clear, simple tasks she could successfully build on.
Balance…Sage needed to ensure the right amount of challenge to enable Trista some victories while staving off defeat and processing grief.
They completed the suicide risk assessment with no obvious red flags, and finished the session, giving Sage about ten minutes to write the progress notes before Miles arrived.
She hit save, and reception buzzed.
“Miles is here.”
“Thanks. Send him in.” She clicked into Miles’ file and kept the monitor facing away from where she conducted the counseling session. Her standard practice.
A receptionist-warning rap alerted her, then her office door eased open. Sage walked toward it and welcomed Miles. “Take a seat.”
He did, his smile powering up to double the intensity of hers, his gaze unwavering.
She sat opposite and shifted a little farther back. “How have you been?”
“Good. Great. You’re helping me heaps.” He moved forward, nearer to her, closing the distance, his stare, his tone, like a full-on fan, a sycophant. Nothing unusual. He’d shown the exact same behavior almost from the moment they’d met.
The guy had projected onto her, reading into their professional relationship, seeing her intervention as so much more. And she’d let it go on too long. She hadn’t established and reinforced clear enough boundaries, thinking his initial infatuation might dissipate once they got chatting, once they got more involved in his therapy.
If anything, his attraction, his fixation, had strengthened—and she had to stop it.
“I’m happy to hear you’ve found the sessions useful.” Now, how would she break the re-referral news to him? Again. “I’ve thoroughly reviewed your notes, and I believe you’re ready for the next step.”
Lines of confusion slashed his brow. “The next step?”
“That’s right. You’ve made some fantastic gains, but in order to keep growing and expanding, I recommend a referral to a more specialized psychologist.”
“What?” He shook his head. “You’re trying to palm me off, even now? We’ve been through this fucking shit before. I thought I’d made myself pretty fucking clear. How many times do I have to explain I find your intervention helpful? Yours. No one else’s. I can’t believe you’re still set on handballing me to some new person.”
He breathed out a forceful, frustrated breath. “I like you. I connect with you. I don’t want to see someone else. How many times do I need to say it for you to comprehend? I don’t want to retell my story, relive all the trauma. I don’t care if they’re the best in the business. I value your assistance. If you’re as client-centered as you say, you’ll respect my choice and not try and bulldoze me.”
Was she bulldozing? Had her hypervigilant mind forced a compromised decision? Or did Miles excel at emotional blackmail? “I empathize with what you’re saying, and I appreciate that you feel you’re making gains and are comfortable with me. So if you really do trust my judgment regarding what’s best for you, you’ll accept my recommendation.”
He scoffed.
“In my professional opinion, you’ve become too attached, too dependent. Eventually this will have an impact on you moving forward. I believe a male therapist is the best option—”
“I don’t want a fucking man!” Miles shot to his feet, his jaw clenched, his face flushed, his hands fisted. “I want you. You’re my therapist. Don’t I have a fucking say?”
Her heart kicked into overdrive. “Sit down, Miles.” She hoped he hadn’t noticed the waver in her voice.
He stood there, breathing hard, his face turning an even angrier red.
“Please, Miles. If you don’t sit, I’ll end the session and have you escorted out.”
He dropped onto his chair, still seething. “This is bullshit.” He thumped his fist on the armrest, and she jumped.
“I realize it’s not what you want to hear. It’s normal to have reservations, to fear change, to want to avoid moving on to a new psychologist. The thing is you’ve hit the ceiling with me and what I can offer. A fresh start will swing the momentum in the forward direction.”
“I don’t believe that. I keep seeing improvements. I want to stay with you.” His tone had turned from frustrated and aggressive to almost pleading.
“I get that staying with me, remaining in your comfort zone, feels like the right decision. However, you’re looking at things from a grief-stricken point of view. Whereas I’m factoring in the whole picture from a neutral state, seeing what you need without any emotional compulsions or complications. Does that make sense?”
“I’m not fucking stupid,” he spat, her comment reigniting his fury. “Even with all your ‘it’s in your best interests’, psycho-babble rubbish, I’m not sold. I know what I need, and that’s you. You’re saying you want to help, but if you really do, you’ll factor in what’s important to me, not just what you think.”
She held out her hands in a non-threatening, placating gesture and tried to keep her voice calm yet firm. “I appreciate your honesty. You’re triggered right now. How about you go away and think about what we discussed? In the meantime, I’ll investigate some alternative psychologists who can help with where you’re at and email their details to you for review.”
“Fine…whatever. But if I choose to keep seeing you, you can’t stop me, right?” He raised his eyebrows in an I-dare-you-to-refuse-me stare.
“If my clinical reasoning determines it’s not helpful, that it’s detrimental to your health and wellbeing, I will have to refer you on.”
“It isn’t. You’ll see. I’ll show you.” He stood and strode toward the door. “See you next week.” Miles marched out of her office, the door slamming shut behind him.
Her pulse pounded at her temples. Could he have gone from dependence to dangerous obsession?