CHAPTER 3 #3
I reached out of the tub, my dripping arm glistening with soapy water, and grabbed my phone from the marble counter. I unlocked the screen, dialed her number, and placed the phone against my ear, letting the deep drone of the monks continue to play softly in the background.
The phone rang once. Twice.
On the third ring, the line clicked open, and the sound of Amanda’s voice filtered into the steamy bathroom. It was a high, breathy sound, instantly laced with a nervous, eager energy that made me feel like a spider watching a fly touch the outer edge of its web.
“Dr. Willis?” she asked, a soft, tentative laugh accompanying her words. “Is everything okay? It’s a bit late for a professional call, isn't it?”
I shifted slightly in the warm water, a low, smooth purr developing in my throat as I adopted the whiskey-register performance.
“Good evening, Amanda. Please, forgive the intrusion. I was just sitting here reflecting on our session today, and I felt a compelling need to check in on you. How is your nervous system settling after the heavy work we did this afternoon?”
I could practically hear the flush rising up her neck over the phone line.
“Oh... Joshua,” she whispered, her tone shifting instantly from professional deference to something much more intimate, much more dangerous.
“It’s so incredibly sweet of you to call.
Honestly, I’ve been a bit of a mess since I left your office.
The house feels so quiet tonight, and my thoughts...
they keep wandering back to the things we talked about. ”
“Trauma has a way of making empty spaces feel hostile, Amanda,” I said, my voice low, resonant, and dripping with an artificial, intoxicating warmth. “That’s why it’s so important to have an anchor. Someone to remind you of your safety. You are safe with me. You know that, don't you?”
“I do,” she breathed, her voice dropping into a soft, wet register that told me exactly where her mind was heading.
“I really do, Joshua. You have this way of making me feel so... completely seen. It’s intoxicating, if I’m being completely honest. I haven't felt a man's attention like this in... god, I don't even know how long.”
I let a soft, knowing chuckle escape my lips, the sound echoing slightly against the marble walls of the bathroom.
“A woman of your beauty and depth should never be starved of attention, Amanda. Your husband’s inability to appreciate the fragile masterpiece he had in his home was his ultimate failure.
But you are free now. Free to explore the things you need. ”
“Joshua... you're making me blush,” she giggled, the sound heavy and frantic. “You shouldn't talk to a client like that. It’s terribly unprofessional.”
“We aren't in the office right now, Amanda,” I whispered, my eyes narrowing as I watched a soap bubble dissolve on the surface of the water.
“And Sunday isn't a therapy session. It’s an exploration.
Just two people sharing fresh air and deep truths by the water.
You aren't thinking of chickening out on me, are you?”
“Oh, absolutely not,” she said quickly, almost desperately.
“I’m counting down the hours, Joshua. Truly.
In fact... it’s a bit of a shame we have to wait all the way until Sunday.
The house is so cold tonight, and I... I have this terrible, heavy ache in my body that I’m having a hard time relieving. ”
A cold, thrilled undercurrent rippled through my chest. I knew exactly what she was implying. The flirtation was becoming heavy, explicit, a classic manifestation of transference where the broken patient seeks validation through sexual submission to the counselor.
“An ache, Amanda?” I asked, my tone turning dark, teasing, and heavily charged with a deliberate sexual energy. “And how do you propose we handle an ache like that from a distance?”
She let out a long, shaky breath that rattled the microphone of her phone. “Well... luckily for me, I have a little toy to play with while I wait for you. But it’s not the same. It doesn't have your hands, Joshua. It doesn't have your height, or those incredible blue eyes.”
I smiled into the dark room, a cold, predatory expression that would have frozen the blood in her veins if she could see it.
“I’m flattered, Amanda. I truly am. I could come over to your place right now, of course...
but I think it’s better if we wait. I’m storing up all my energy for Sunday.
I want our time by the lake to be completely unforgettable. ”
“You are a cruel man, Dr. Willis,” she whimpered, a soft, wet gasp escaping her throat on her end of the line. “An absolute tease. But... I suppose a masterpiece takes time to prepare. I’ll just have to think about you while I handle things tonight.”
“Do that, Amanda,” I said, my voice dropping to a final, low whisper that carried the weight of a death warrant. “Think about me. Think about my hands. I’ll see you Sunday at noon. Don't tell a soul where you're going. Let's keep our little sanctuary entirely to ourselves.”
“I won't tell anyone,” she promised, her voice breathless and entirely defeated by her own desire. “Goodnight, Joshua.”
“Goodnight, Amanda.”
I ended the call, tossing the phone back onto the counter. I lay back in the cooling water, a soft sigh escaping my lips as the Tibetan chants continued to drone in the background. The trap was perfectly set. The fly was entirely entangled in the silk, waiting for the spider to descend.
An hour later, the ritual of the bath was over.
I stepped out of the tub, my skin pink and tingling from the heat, and dried myself with a massive, charcoal-gray bath towel.
I pulled on a pair of comfortable dark gray sweatpants and a long-sleeved black cotton shirt, tying my long blonde hair back into a loose, comfortable knot at the nape of my neck.
I walked downstairs to the kitchen, my stomach letting out a low rumble of hunger.
I didn't feel like cooking tonight—my mind was too active, too scattered across the different timelines of my plans.
I grabbed my phone, opened the DoorDash app, and ordered a simple, high-protein meal from a local steakhouse: a twelve-ounce ribeye, medium-rare, with a side of roasted asparagus.
No carbs. No sugar. A clean fuel for a clean machine.
While I waited for the delivery, I moved into the living room, turning on the massive flat-screen television that mounted to the wall. I bypassed the standard news channels and cable garbage, navigating straight to a streaming platform to put on an old episode of Law I didn't care about the moral triumphs of the detectives.
I watched them for the comedy of errors.
Every single episode was a masterclass in how amateurish, how sloppy the average criminal was.
They left DNA on wine glasses; they kept trophies in their dresser drawers; they talked to their friends, bragging about their deeds like children looking for a gold star.
“Amateurs,” I murmured, leaning my head against the leather cushion of the sofa as the familiar dun-dun sound echoed through the quiet room. “A complete lack of discipline.”
The doorbell rang fifteen minutes later.
I walked to the foyer, opened the door, and took the brown paper bag from a young, nervous-looking delivery driver who didn't even have the courage to make eye contact with a man of my height.
I tipped him generously through the app—I always paid my debts—and closed the door.
I ate my meal directly out of the plastic container at the kitchen island, using a real silver fork and knife.
The steak was perfectly cooked, the red juice pooling at the bottom of the tray, smelling of charred fat and coarse salt.
I chewed slowly, deliberately, letting the nutrients work their way into my system while the distant sound of the television detectives interrogating a suspect provided a comforting background noise.
Once the meal was finished, I disposed of the containers in the trash, wiping down the marble island with an antibacterial wipe until it gleamed like ice. The house was entirely clean. The flowers were watered. The plans were calibrated.
I walked upstairs to the bedroom, clicking off the final lights as I went, leaving the lower level of the house in total darkness.
I slid beneath the cool, crisp white sheets of my platform bed, the fabric feeling smooth against my skin.
I closed my eyes, letting the heavy silence of the charcoal room pull me down into the deep, dark currents of sleep.
***
The transition from consciousness to the dream world was seamless, a slow, heavy drop into a reality that felt far more vivid, far more electrical than the waking life I had just left behind.
I wasn't at the lake. I wasn't in my office.