Tricked By Jack (Seasonal Obsessions #3)

Chapter 1

The Trickster

February

I kill the incoming call, Nick’s name flashing for the third time today. I’m not in the mood for having my brother check up on me. I have more pressing matters—like what’s behind the door of Mortis Psychotherapy in front of me.

It’s been two weeks since we buried Ruby, and here I am. Eve canceled my original appointment last week, but I’m not letting anything get in the way of this one.

The waiting room is a shrine to false comfort. Every chair spaced with surgical precision, magazines fanned like they were measured with a ruler. The kind of order that makes you itch.

Someone—Eve Mortis, no doubt—has thought about every detail, every angle, every impression. It makes my teeth ache, and as I take a seat facing the door to the inner offices, I purposefully graze a few of the chairs so their formation is less pristine.

This is exactly the kind of place where people cry in whispers and mirrors never show what you want them to.

My hand slips into my jacket pocket, fingers brushing against the folded edge of Ruby’s funeral program. By now, the paper has softened from my constant handling, and the ink’s fading where my thumb rests against her name.

Even though every word and photo is burned into my memory, I keep it close. My sister’s smiling face is a better picture than the mental one I can’t shake. The one of her dying right in front of me.

I’m saved from the agonizing trip down memory lane of how I killed Ruby when I notice the receptionist, Naya, watching me from behind the counter. She smiles like it’s policy. Polished warmth, one-size-fits-all.

“First time here?” she asks, voice pitched to carry just to my ears, despite the empty waiting room.

“Is it that obvious?” I make my voice even. Like I’m not one breath away from losing my shit. And like I didn’t spend the entire night alone with my new best friends Senor Tequila and my namesake Mr. Jack Daniels.

“Either you’re too much in a rush to read…” She gestures to the sign on the wall I ignored. The one that states you need to announce your presence to the receptionist. “… or you’re rude. I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt.”

I offer a practiced and soft smile. “My bad. I’m sorry about that. I’m Jack Knight—”

She waves me off. “I remember you from when you made your appointment,” she says softly. “Dr. Mortis will be with you shortly.”

Just as she says that, a woman emerges from the inner corridor, her eyes both steely and red-rimmed. She keeps her gaze down as she slides a credit card across to Naya, murmuring something I can’t hear.

Another broken person, leaving Dr. Mortis’ office, probably no more fixed than when she entered. I wonder if she’ll even make it to her car before the temporary relief of confession fades.

This is what Eve Mortis does. She listens, nods, and offers practiced empathy in fifty-minute increments. And people leave thinking they’ve been helped, never suspecting they’ve just paid to have their wounds cataloged by someone who studies emotions like others study art.

I wonder if her eyes ever glaze over while someone sobs about the worst night of their life. If she files trauma away like recipes—one pinch of loss, two of betrayal, stir with remorse.

After two weeks of researching her online, I’ve learned a lot about Eve Mortis. I could recite her academic credentials, which are no small feats. According to every file I’ve been able to track down, Eve Mortis is a goddamn prodigy.

She graduated high school at fifteen, and finished NYU Grossman School of Medicine at twenty-two. Which explains how she was licensed to open her clinic at only twenty-six. She’s the only child of the late Charles Mortis, who was born Pearson, but changed his last name to stand out more.

On paper, her lineage and achievements make her untouchable. I don’t believe it, though. No one’s squeaky clean. Eve has skeletons in her closet just like everyone else. I’d shadow her dad or outright ask him if I could. But he died years ago.

If the rumors are to be believed, he was killed by the Hunter. It’s a pretty story, though I doubt it's real. After all, what kind of twisted person would give therapy to their dad’s killer?

None of that matters today. What I’ve come here to discover—is whether she feels anything at all behind those carefully constructed walls.

Naya’s voice pulls me from my thoughts. “Mr. Knight? Dr. Mortis is ready for you.”

I stand, smoothing my tailored jacket with practiced ease. My shoes make no sound on the carpet as I follow Naya down the hallway. The corridor smells different from the waiting room—less synthetic, more human.

“First sessions are usually just getting to know each other,” Naya says over her shoulder. She says it like this is a place for healing. “Dr. Mortis is very good at helping people who are struggling.”

“I’m sure she is,” I reply, allowing just enough rawness into my voice to suggest vulnerability. Inside, I feel nothing but the growing anger and hatred for Eve motherfucking Mortis.

Naya stops at a door, knocks twice, and opens it without waiting for a response. “Dr. Mortis, this is Jack Knight.”

She steps aside, and I catch a glimpse of the woman who could have saved my sister. The woman who chose not to. Dr. Eve Mortis stands up. “Thank you, Naya,” Eve says, her warm tone at odds with her professionally blank expression.

While Naya slips out, Eve takes a step toward me. Her hair is just as it was at the funeral—jet black from scalp to shoulder, then changing into a striking blood-red color. She wears a long-sleeved nude-toned dress, tailored and high-necked, hem grazing just below the knee.

I fucking hate how good she looks.

Every detail in her outfit is stripped of warmth, like she’s allergic to being perceived as anything but controlled. Which, honestly, fit the rest of her soulless office.

There are no family photos or diplomas on display. No plants reaching for nonexistent sunlight. Just white walls, a glass desk with nothing out of place, and a single painting of abstract shapes that convey nothing but safe, sterile ambiguity.

Even the couch where she gestures for me to sit feels unwelcoming—firm enough to keep me present, soft enough to suggest comfort without delivering it.

It’s a room designed to reveal nothing about its occupant while extracting everything from those who enter.

Perfect for a woman who trades in the spectrum of human emotions.

“Please, make yourself comfortable, Mr. Knight,” she says, her voice smooth and calibrated. She takes the chair opposite the couch, crossing one leg over the other. Her notepad rests on her lap, pen poised to dissect me.

I sink into the couch, allowing my shoulders to slump forward just enough to signal distress. “Jack. Please call me Jack.”

She nods once. “Jack. I must admit, I’m curious as to why you made this appointment. You didn’t seem happy that I was at the funeral.” Eve’s face remains professionally compassionate—a mask as carefully constructed as the rest of her. “I’m very sorry for your loss. Are you here to talk about Ruby?”

I’ve rehearsed this. What to say. How much to reveal. I need to appear genuine without overplaying my hand. “Yeah,” I admit, my voice thick with emotions. “I guess I am.”

Eve makes a note on her pad. “Go on.”

“Did you know she was the youngest of the three of us?” I ask, staring at a point just past Eve’s left ear.

“Why are you asking if I knew? Is that important to you?”

I force myself not to clench my hands or jaw at her obvious deflection. “Just curious,” I reply, keeping my tone as light as possible.

“Tell me about your sister, Jack. What kind of person was she?”

“The best,” I growl, not liking the way it sounds like she’s doubting the kind of person Ruby was. “She was dealt a shitty hand in life, and at every turn, our dad made it worse. But she was kind and loving. Fuck…”

“Go on,” she prompts gently.

“Ruby was also quick to forgive. Even when people didn’t deserve it.”

Another note. Another practiced tilt of Eve’s head. “What do you mean when you say people didn’t deserve forgiveness? Are you talking about yourself?”

“Maybe.” I lean forward, hands loosely clasped between my knees. “I should have known what she was planning… what she had started. What he was fucking hired to do. Maybe if I’d known I could have stopped it… but I didn’t.”

Eve’s pen stills for a moment. “I understand you probably have a lot of unanswered questions. But let me ask you this, Jack. Why are you placing so much emphasis on the what and why? Nothing can bring your sister back to life.”

I inhale sharply, averting my gaze so she can’t see the hatred burning in my eye sockets. “Understanding is a preface for acceptance,” I retort, my tone low. “But you’re right, Eve. I’ll probably never know the reasons behind the choices Ruby made.”

She nods. “It’s good for you to—”

“So that just leaves the whys, and more importantly, the responsibility.”

More scribbling before she looks back up at me, her gray eyes intense. “And who do you believe is responsible?” When I don’t answer immediately, she cants her head slightly. “You mentioned that your dad did wrong by Ruby. Are you blaming him for her death?”

A c old laugh slips out. “Nah, he’s not responsible for her death. Mine, sure, but not hers.”

Eve’s lips part, probably to ask what I meant by my death. But I lift a hand, wordlessly silencing her since that’s not a conversation I’m willing to have. Not about the minutes I was gone, or the doctors who dragged me back. And definitely not about the Knight family curse.

If I were a theorist, I’d call it coincidence. Say Ruby’s death was timing, mine was luck, and Nick’s survival is just statistical noise in a family with too much blood under its fingernails. But I’m not a theorist. I’m a Knight, and Knights know better.