Chapter 3
Obsession
Ilive in a well-secured building. The daytime doorman’s name is Frank.
I’ve never asked for his last name. It’s Frank.
Just Frank. And Frank knows I don’t take visitors.
Frank knows I value my privacy. Frank knows not to let anyone upstairs.
He knows this because earlier this year, he almost called the cops when a patient of mine—back when I had patients—tried to break into my apartment, claiming he loved me.
I believe—though I didn’t spend enough time with him to make an official diagnosis— Patient X suffered from erotomania, a delusional disorder where an individual believes that someone, often a stranger or a person of higher status, is in love with them.
This belief is unfounded and not based on actual interactions.
Individuals with erotomania may engage in stalking, send unsolicited messages or gifts, and persistently try to contact the person they believe loves them, often misinterpreting neutral interactions as signs of affection.
I had three sessions with Patient X. Three hours in total. That’s all it took for the seed to grow into a full-fledged obsession.
I don’t take visitors.
My eyelids spring open as a loud clang sounds from the living room.
Case files stick to my cheek as I jerk upright, my shoulders and neck sore from falling asleep at the dining room table.
My heart hammers as I adjust to the daylight, the sun filtering through the cracks in the blinds.
I reach for the 9-iron tucked in the corner of the room.
I may need to rethink my line of defense against intruders. A golf club won’t stop a bullet.
Gripping the handle of the club with two hands, I rise to my tiptoes, quietly circling the dining room. Pulse quickening, I lift my weapon of choice over my right shoulder, suck in a sharp breath of acceptance, and charge toward the living room like a madwoman.
“Woah!”
I freeze, chest rising and falling as I find Amir perched on the couch, a box of donuts on the coffee table. My jaw drops, eyes widening at his lack of boundaries.
Amir holds his hands dramatically in the air, grinning up at me. “Take my money, just please don’t hurt me.”
With a huff, I drop the golf club on the area rug, my gut churning with frustration. “What the hell are you doing here, Amir? How did you get in?”
He reaches into his suit pocket and pulls out a set of keys. “You gave these to me. Remember?”
I march toward him, snatching the keys away. “These are for emergencies, Amir!”
He pouts, feigning offense. “I do have an emergency.”
I blink at him, crossing my arms. “Yeah? What is it? Another date gone bad?”
He rolls his eyes, opening the box of donuts. “No…” A cheeky smile clips his lips. “My espresso machine broke. Can’t have donuts without coffee.” He nods to the kitchen. “Save me?”
I shake my head, bewildered. He’s older than me. How the hell is he older than me?
“You’re a child,” I grunt, marching to the kitchen. I rummage through the cupboards for the espresso pods as Amir leaps off the couch and hovers behind me. “There are approximately 1,200 coffee shops in Manhattan, and yet you had to break into my house for a cup?”
Amir sighs, leaning against the counter. “I had keys. It’s hardly a break-in.”
I pop the capsule into the machine and spin around. “You’re taking this to-go.”
He lifts a brow. “Let me guess, you’re super busy today.”
I tighten my messy high ponytail, inwardly wincing. I need to shower. “I am busy.”
Amir’s gaze darts to the dining room table. He purses his lips. “Business or pleasure?”
“Don’t.” He waltzes toward the scattered case files, and I chase after him. “Those are classified! You don’t have—” Defeat washes over me as he picks up a crime scene image and cringes. I sigh. “Clearance.”
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, his face paling. “Is that…” His eyes widen. “Is that Tyler Saunders?”
I drag a hand down my face. Patience. I need to practice patience. He’s my brother. My family. And I love him. I do. He’s annoying, pushy, and far too boisterous for my liking, but I don’t have to like him. I love him.
“Please put that down.”
He cocks his head, refusing to let go of the document. “The FBI still bugging you to join their little manhunt?”
Anger bubbles inside me, but I attempt to breathe it away. I said please. He heard me, right? I said fucking please.
“Amir…”
He plops down in the chair I fell asleep in last night and tauntingly waves the crime scene image at me.
“You know, I read in the paper that this guy is going after people in power.” He pauses, swallowing.
“I knew Tyler Saunders. We played golf together a couple of times. He sat on the same board as me and Vincent Wentz.” A beat. “Was Vincent…”
I expel a long, labored sigh. Vincent Wentz was found in the East River a year ago—with several gunshot wounds. His company bought a patent for a life-saving drug and then resold it for over a nine hundred percent profit. I don’t think anyone misses him.
“No, Vincent Wentz’s murder has no correlation to this unsub. The NYPD closed his case several months ago. Some hacker did it.”
Amir frowns. “I don’t like this, Safia. It feels… close to home.”
The espresso machine sounds, and I quickly retrieve the cup of coffee, placing it in front of Amir as I sit beside him.
“That’s because it is close to home, Amir. It’s always close to home. In the 1960s, Social Psychologist Stanley Milgram proposed the notion of six degrees of separation. That theory is still prevalent today. Most of us are only separated by six connections.”
Amir takes a sip of coffee. “But this isn’t six degrees, Safia—this is one degree. I was acquainted with Tyler. And I knew Judge Andrews. Whoever this guy is, he’s going after people who aren’t so different from me, from my friends.”
I scowl at him. “Your friends? Like Damon Cavanaugh and Quinton Marquis? Those friends?”
I try not to judge my brother and his lifestyle choices, but like him, Amir’s tight circle of friends are hedonistic sex fiends.
They’re members of a damn kink club for fuck’s sake.
Last year, I made the mistake of doing Amir a favor and accepting an emergency appointment with one of his friends. Let’s just say it didn’t go well.
Amir sighs. “They’re good people, Safia.”
I scoff. “Their little girlfriend called me a bitch, Amir.”
“Wife. She’s their wife.” He tilts his head and gives me a knowing smile. “And you are kind of a bitch, Saffy.”
My jaw drops. “Why? Because I told her the truth? If she didn’t want to hear my opinion, then why come and see me? Huh?”
Amir waves me off. “That was almost a year ago, Saf. Maybe it’s time to get over it.”
“Not likely.”
“They’re coming to my birthday party. It would be nice if there weren’t an elephant in the room making everyone uncomfortable.”
“Are you implying that I’m the elephant?”
“No, the situation is the elephant, Safia. I’m just saying that I’d love for my sister and my friends to get along.
” He pauses for a moment before reaching out and grabbing my hand.
His tone turns solemn, almost afraid. “I know you don’t trust the FBI, and I don’t blame you.
The way Agent Reese treated you was unprofessional, but people are dying, Safia.
” He nods down to the case files. “If you can help save lives, isn’t it worth letting go of the past? ”
I shift uncomfortably in my seat. “I met the lead investigator last night. He crashed my class.”
Amir grins. “I’m sure you loved that.”
“He…” My jaw tightens. “He’s…” I grunt. “There’s no way I’d be able to work with that man. He…” Hmm. I flick my gaze around Amir’s curious face. “He kind of reminds me of you, actually.”
Amir sucks in a sharp breath. “Ouch.”
I wince. “I didn’t mean…”
“Yes, you did, and that’s okay. I’m a big boy. I’m not going to cry about it.” He leans back in the chair, casting me a knowing look. “So, tell me about this lead investigator.”
“There’s nothing to tell,” I say, averting my gaze. “I’ve told him no, and I mean it.”
“Hmm…” Amir glances down at the case notes. He picks up a document with indiscernible scribbles in the margins. “Is that why you spent all night reviewing the files? Because you’re not interested?”
I yank the paper out of his hands. “That is classified, Amir. Do you want to go to jail?”
“You’d report me?” He grabs his chest. “Your own brother? Come on, Saf. Even you’re not that heartless.”
I glare at Amir as Maslow, my Maine coon, leaps onto my lap, and I stroke his thick, luscious fur. “Try me.”
Amir continues to flip through all the documents, taking in the plethora of notes I’ve made regarding victimology, the questions I have for the medical examiner (ME), and the various fleeting thoughts I had while reading the reports.
“I don’t know why you’re being so stubborn, Saf,” Amir muses, brows scrunched up as he attempts to decipher my shorthand.
“We both know you’re going to cave. Plus…
” He glances up at me. “It sure would make me feel a lot better if my sister, one of the greatest minds in her field, was helping track this psycho.”
“Don’t worry.” I swallow. “You don’t fit the victimology.”
It’s a lie. I don’t know enough about the victims to make that assertion.
The truth is, I need more. I need backgrounds on Judge Andrews, Tyler Saunders, and George Burg.
Agent Kane didn’t provide me with background information.
He only gave me crumbs. He’s clever. He knew that crumbs would make me crave more.
“I hope you’re right, Saffy.” Amir slaps his knees before standing up.
He polishes off the rest of the coffee. “I better get going. I’ve got a lunch date.
” I inwardly cringe. Forever a bachelor.
He nods to the living room. “Why don’t you call Agent Kane, huh?
Tell him that you’ve reconsidered. You can bring the donuts down to the field office. You know, as a peace offering.”
I stiffen. “I never said his name.”