CHAPTER 12
Joshua’s POV:
The transition from the raw, sweat-slicked intimacy of my bedroom to the hyper-manicured, sterile quiet of my private practice required a meticulous recalibration of my internal architecture.
In the quiet of the morning, after the exhaust of Ciara’s Mark X had faded down the suburban block, I stood before the full-length mirror in my dressing room.
I selected a three-piece charcoal suit, tailored specifically to drape over my six-foot-eight frame without making me look like an impending threat.
I pulled my long, spun-gold blonde hair back into a flawless, low ponytail, pinning it with a silver clip that screamed academic precision.
I adjusted my gold-rimmed reading glasses.
The man in the glass was Dr. Joshua Willis: a pillar of sophisticated, analytical elegance, a healer of fractured minds. The shadow—the predator who had watched Amanda Wilde’s chest grow still beneath the pouring rain—was locked away behind a firewall of pure, unyielding intellect.
When I stepped through the heavy glass doors of my practice at precisely noon, the atmosphere was thick, almost suffocatingly somber.
The usual ambient sounds of the office—the low, expensive gurgle of the espresso machine, the soft, rhythmic tick-tick-tick of the minimalist mahogany wall clock—felt muted, weighed down by the invisible anchor of public tragedy.
Ms. Watson, my administrative assistant, sat behind the curved obsidian reception desk.
She wasn't typing. Her fingers hovered over the mechanical keyboard like pale, frozen spiders.
A half-empty ceramic mug of black coffee sat beside her, cold oil forming a thin, iridescent film over the surface.
The high-end scent of freshly ground Arabica beans was entirely ruined by the sour odor of her anxiety.
She looked up as the door clicked shut behind me. Her eyes were red-rimmed, the skin beneath them bruised with a purplish exhaustion that told me she hadn't slept since the CNN broadcast went live.
“Dr. Willis,” she whispered, her voice cracking slightly, a dry, raspy sound that betrayed a morning spent holding back tears. “I… I assume you’ve seen the reports? The bulletins?”
I paused, allowing my briefcase to descend to the leather chair beside the desk with a slow, deliberate finality.
I let my shoulders drop just a fraction of an inch—a calculated physical manifestation of sudden, heavy grief.
I took off my reading glasses, pinching the bridge of my nose as if a localized migraine of immense sorrow had just struck behind my eyes.
“I have, Ms. Watson,” I said, my baritone dropping into a low, hollow register that felt like a physical weight in the small room. “I saw the broadcast this morning before I left the house. I must admit… I am entirely undone by it.”
A single, ragged sob escaped her throat, her hand flying up to cover her mouth.
“It’s just… it doesn't make sense, Joshua. Amanda? Missing? She was so bright, so put together during her last few sessions. I remembers her smiling when she walked through that door last week. To think that someone… that she could just vanish into thin air…”
I moved around the desk, my movements slow, fluid, and intentionally non-threatening.
I placed a large, warm hand on her trembling shoulder, squeezing the fabric of her cardigan with just enough pressure to simulate grounding comfort.
Internally, I was analyzing the mechanical structure of her grief—the hyperventilation, the elevated cortisol, the desperate human need to find order in a universe that offered nothing but chaos. It was child's play to manipulate.
“Grief rarely makes sense to those left in its wake, Eleanor,” I murmured, using her first name to dissolve the professional distance, drawing her further into my narrative sanctuary.
“Amanda was a beautiful soul, but she was also a woman fighting an incredibly brutal war within herself. She struggled so beautifully, so violently against her inner demons. Sometimes… the weight of the world simply becomes too heavy for a spirit to bear.”
I let my voice falter on the last word. I closed my eyes, forcing a deep, chemical constriction behind my tear ducts.
Years of theater study during my residency had taught me how to trigger the physical response of mourning at will.
A single, heavy tear welled up in the corner of my right eye, breaking free and tracking slowly down the sharp, model-like angle of my jaw.
Ms. Watson looked up, seeing my tears, and her own defenses completely shattered. She grabbed my hand, her fingers cold and trembling against my skin, looking at me as if I were a tragic saint carrying the sorrow of the entire city.
“You did everything you could for her, Doctor,” she sobbed, dabbing at her eyes with a crumpled tissue. “I know how much you cared about her progress. You gave her so much of your time. More than any other patient.”
“She showed such immense promise, Eleanor,” I whispered, sniffing convincingly as I pulled a linen handkerchief from my breast pocket to gently dab at my cheek.
“To have her journey cut short like this… it feels like a personal failure of the highest order. I keep asking myself if I missed a sign. A hidden cry for help during our last hour together.”
“Don’t do that to yourself, please,” she begged, completely ensnared by the performance. “You cannot carry the weight of every broken soul that walks through this door. You are only one man.”
No, I thought, looking down at her bowed head with a cold, terrifying clarity that would have stopped her heart if she could see it. I am the only man who knows exactly where her bones are resting.
I took a deep, steadying breath, squaring my shoulders as if forcing myself to find strength for her sake.
“Thank you, Eleanor. Your words are a comfort I didn't know I needed today. But we must remain strong. The authorities will be here soon, and we owe it to Amanda’s memory to be entirely transparent, entirely cooperative. Let us ensure her files are immaculate before the detectives arrive.”
“Yes, sir,” she sniffled, sitting up straighter, her loyalty to me cemented into something absolute, something impenetrable. “I’ll make sure everything is ready.”
***
At exactly three o'clock, the glass doors opened again, and Detective Jones stepped into the reception area.
She was shorter than I anticipated, perhaps five-foot-six, but she carried herself with a dense, square-shouldered gravity that spoke of a life spent in the company of violence.
Her police jacket was cheap, synthetic leather that smelled faintly of stale tobacco, rain-soaked asphalt, and old diner grease.
It was an offensive, chaotic scent that threatened the pristine, cedarwood-and-mint equilibrium of my office.
Her eyes were sharp, small, and dark, scanning the room like a hawk looking for a soft place to strike.
“Dr. Willis?” she asked, her voice a flat, nasal rasp as she flashed a gold shield that had grown dull from years of handling. “Detective Jones. Missing Persons.”
“Detective,” I said, stepping out of my inner office to greet her.
I offered her a firm, controlled handshake, letting her feel the immense, heavy strength of my hand without applying any competitive pressure.
“Thank you for coming. Please, come inside. Ms. Watson, please ensure we are not disturbed.”
My private office was designed to disarm.
The walls were a deep, calming navy blue; the furniture was heavy, dark mahogany; and the lighting was soft, warm, and indirect.
I took my place behind the massive executive desk, while Jones sat opposite me, her cheap leather jacket creaking loudly against the fine leather of the armchair.
She opened a small, battered spiral notebook, the pages yellowed at the edges. The scratch of her cheap ballpoint pen against the paper was an abrasive, rhythmic sound in the quiet room.
“Appreciate your time, Doctor,” Jones began, not looking up yet. “I’ll get straight to it. Amanda Wilde. She’s been your patient for the last fourteen months, correct?”
“Fourteen months and three weeks, to be precise, Detective,” I replied, my voice smooth, cooperative, and perfectly professional.
I leaned back in my chair, folding my hands over my waist. “A deeply tragic situation. My assistant and I have been in a state of quiet shock since the morning news broke.”
Jones’s eyes snapped up, drilling into mine.
She was looking for a hitch, a micro-expression of guilt, a shift in the posture of a suspect.
But I had spent a lifetime studying the anatomy of interrogation.
I gave her exactly what a grieving, law-abiding clinician should give: open body language, direct eye contact, and a soft, melancholic frown.
“When was the last time you saw her, Dr. Willis?”
“Last Tuesday at four o'clock,” I said without a moment's hesitation. I reached down, opening the top drawer of my desk, and pulled out a thick, manila folder. I slid it across the polished mahogany surface toward her. “This is Amanda’s complete file. Patient history, session notes, behavioral assessments. I’ve took the liberty of printing a full copy for your investigation.”
Jones pulled the folder toward her, her stubby fingers flicking through my beautifully fabricated notes.
Internally, I smiled. I had spent three hours the night before refining these pages, backdating entries to paint a highly specific, devastating portrait of a woman on the brink of a psychological break.
“According to your notes here,” Jones muttered, squinting at my neat handwriting, “she was experiencing severe bouts of paranoia. Mentioned feeling like she was being followed?”