CHAPTER 12 #2
“Yes,” I sighed, leaning forward, resting my forearms on the desk in a gesture of shared confidence.
“Amanda suffered from a complex matrix of borderline personality disorder and severe clinical depression. In the weeks leading up to her disappearance, her grip on reality was becoming increasingly fragile. She developed a profound fixation on the idea that an ex-lover from her past was stalking her. We spent several sessions trying to untangle that delusion from reality.”
Jones stopped flipping pages, her pen hovering over the notebook. “A delusion? So you don't think she was actually being followed?”
“There was zero empirical evidence to suggest it,” I said smoothly, my voice dripping with clinical authority.
“Her sister, Clara, confirmed to me during a family consultation months ago that the ex-lover in question had moved to Europe three years ago and had completely cut off contact. Amanda’s mind was creating monsters to justify the intense, consuming panic she felt inside. ”
Jones chewed on the inside of her cheek, the scent of her cheap tobacco-breath drifting across the desk. “Did she ever mention wanting to hurt herself, Doctor? Was she suicidal?”
This was the pivot point of the chess match.
The moment where a lesser mind would stumble, where a guilty man would try too hard to push the suicide narrative.
I paused, letting the silence stretch between us for three full seconds, allowing the rhythmic tick of the clock to build a sense of professional gravity.
“Suicidal is an absolute term, Detective,” I said carefully, choosing my words with the tact of a diplomat.
“Did she leave a note? Did she express an explicit, immediate plan to end her life during our last session? No. But was she a high-risk flight risk? Did she possess a profound vulnerability and a well-documented history of self-destructive tendencies? Absolutely.”
I leaned in closer, my blue eyes locking onto hers with a piercing, academic intensity.
“In my professional opinion, Amanda was experiencing a severe dissociative episode. When the pressure within her psyche reached a fever pitch, her default defense mechanism was flight. It is highly probable that she packed a bag, abandoned her vehicle, and sought a form of geographic cure—fleeing to another state under an assumed identity to escape the noise in her own head. It happens far more often than the public realizes.”
Jones stared at me for a long, agonizing moment.
I could see the gears turning in her mind, her police instinct trying to find a crack in my ironclad logic.
But there was no crack. I had given her a beautifully gift-wrapped narrative, backed by fourteen months of medical jargon, signed by a licensed professional with an unblemished reputation.
Slowly, she snapped her notebook shut with a loud, decisive pop.
“Appreciate the insight, Dr. Willis,” she said, standing up, her cheap leather jacket creaking like a dying animal. “You’ve been more than helpful. Most doctors give us a hard time about patient confidentiality, subpoenas, all that legal junk.”
I rose to my full height, towering over her, but keeping my posture humble, my head slightly bowed.
“Detective, a young woman’s life is at stake.
Confidentiality matters, but humanity matters more.
If my notes can help bring Amanda home safe, I would dismantle every barrier in this city to give them to you. ”
“I’ll be in touch if anything else pops up,” she said, turning toward the door.
“Please do,” I murmured. “My prayers are with her family.”
As the glass door clicked shut behind her, the tension in my shoulders vanished instantly. I sank back into my leather executive chair, letting out a long, heavy sigh of pure, unadulterated relief. I checked my pulse. Seventy-two beats per minute. A perfect performance.
I reached into my pocket, my fingers brushing against the cold, silver casing of the stencil knife tucked safely away in my trousers. I smiled, a dark, wicked thing that never touched my eyes.
“Checkmate, Detective,” I whispered to the empty room.
***
The remainder of the afternoon was an exhausting exercise in professional endurance.
My four o'clock session with Mr. Whitlock was a grueling, tedious hour of listening to a middle-aged corporate executive whine about his fragile ego and his mid-life crisis.
It took every ounce of my clinical restraint not to lean across the desk, grab him by his expensive silk tie, and tell him that his problems were nothing but a drop of water in an ocean of real, primal suffering.
But I wore the mask. I nodded. I validated. I collected his substantial fee.
By the time six o'clock rolled around, my mind was entirely drained from the sheer exertion of keeping my defenses high. I locked up the office, bid a quiet goodnight to Ms. Watson, and walked out into the cooling evening air.
As I reached the parking garage, my phone vibrated in my pocket, a sharp, rhythmic buzz that broke the quiet of the concrete structure. I pulled it out, seeing Ciara’s name flash across the screen.
Instantly, the cold, analytical grip around my chest loosened.
A dark, possessive warmth flooded my veins, my mind instantly flashing back to the scent of her skin, the heavy weight of her thighs around my waist, and the wicked, uninhibited way she had claimed my body on the kitchen counter that morning.
“Ciara,” I said, my voice dropping into that low, natural baritone as I answered.
“Hey, handsome,” her voice came through the speaker, a smoky, playful purr that instantly wiped the remnants of the office from my brain. “You survived the day with all those crazy people?”
“Barely,” I chuckled, leaning against the side of my vehicle. “The minds of the public are a heavy burden today, baby. I am in desperate need of a distraction.”
“Good, ‘cause that’s exactly what I got planned for you,” she shot back, a sharp, playful edge in her voice.
“I’m out here playing chauffeur tonight.
I know this real chill, lowkey spot down by the bay.
Secluded, sweet, and they got the best food in the city.
Tell me something, Doc… you like spicy food? ”
A slow, appreciative grin spread across my lips. “Ciara, I am a man who appreciates heat in all its forms. A resounding yes. I can handle whatever you throw at me.”
“Oh, really? We gon' see about that,” she laughed, a rich, full sound that made my chest tighten with a strange, unfamiliar emotion. “Be ready at your gate in thirty minutes. Don’t keep a lady waiting.”
Exactly twenty-nine minutes later, I stood outside the heavy iron gates of my estate.
The sun was dipping below the horizon, painting the sky in violent streaks of crimson, deep violet, and bruised gold.
The headlights of a pristine, metallic-black Toyota Mark X cut through the gathering dusk, the engine let out a low, smooth purr as the vehicle pulled up to the curb.
The passenger window slid down with a soft hiss, and Ciara looked up at me from the driver’s seat.
She looked absolutely spectacular. She was wearing a form-fitting, emerald-green silk dress that contrasted beautifully with her deep chocolate skin, the neckline plunging just enough to give me a tantalizing view of the heavy curve of her breasts.
Her hair was styled in sleek, voluminous waves that fell over her shoulders, and her lips were painted a dark, glossy plum.
“Well, don’t just stand there looking like a whole security guard, giant,” she teased, her eyes trailing over my tailored suit. “Get your big ass in the car.”
I smiled, opening the door and sliding my massive frame into the leather passenger seat.
The interior of the Mark X was pristine, smelling of expensive vanilla air freshener, clean leather, and the heavy, intoxicating jasmine scent of her perfume.
The space was tight for a man my size, my knees nearly touching the dashboard, but being confined in a small space with her felt less like a restriction and more like a luxury.
“Good evening, beautiful,” I murmured, leaning across the console to press a deep, lingering kiss against her lips. She tasted like sweet lip gloss and a hint of mint, her mouth opening slightly to welcome my tongue for a brief, electric second before she pulled back with a knowing smile.
“Mmm, save all that energy for later, Doc,” she winked, shifting the car into drive and pulling away from the curb with a smooth press of the accelerator.
As she navigated the highway, the neon streetlights began to bleed through the windshield, casting long, liquid shadows over her thick, bare thighs.
“So, tell me about your day. Did you have to lock anyone up in a rubber room today?”
I let out a low laugh, settling back against the leather seat, my eyes locked on the profile of her face.
“No rubber rooms today, fortunately. Just the usual corporate anxieties. Though… I did have a rather interesting encounter this afternoon. A female detective from the Missing Persons division stopped by my office.”
Ciara’s fingers tightened slightly around the steering wheel, her eyes darting toward me for a fraction of a second before focusing back on the road. “Really? About that woman from the news? Amanda?”
“Yes,” I said, keeping my tone perfectly conversational, experiencing an intense, dark thrill from discussing the anatomy of my crime right in front of her.
“We had a very long, intense conversation about her psychological history. She wanted to know if Amanda was suicidal, if she had any enemies, if there were any signs I missed. It was a fascinating exercise in law enforcement methodology.”