I stared at my bank account on the cracked phone screen. Two hundred forty-seven dollars. That was it. That was everything standing between me and complete disaster.
The eviction notice sat on my desk, red letters screaming FINAL NOTICE across the top. Sixty days. I had sixty days to come up with three months' rent or I'd be on the street. Again.
My hands shook as I opened my email. Please. Please let there be something.
"Dr. Reeves?" My assistant Maria poked her head through the door. "Your four o'clock cancelled. Again."
I closed my eyes. That was two hundred dollars I desperately needed. Gone.
"Thanks, Maria."
She hesitated. "Nina, are you okay? You look..."
"I'm fine." The lie tasted bitter. "Just tired."
She left, and I dropped my head into my hands. Fine. I was the opposite of fine. My father needed surgery. Twelve thousand dollars for a procedure that would save his life, and I had exactly two hundred forty-seven dollars to my name.
The student loans were crushing me. One hundred forty thousand dollars in debt for a PhD that barely paid enough to keep me fed. I worked seventy-hour weeks seeing patients who could barely afford my already-low rates, and I was still drowning.
My phone buzzed. Unknown number.
"Dr. Nina Reeves?" A woman's voice, crisp and professional.
"Speaking."
"This is Janet Mills from the New York State Court System. We have a patient referral for you. Court-mandated therapy case. The compensation is four hundred fifty dollars per session, weekly sessions for twelve months minimum."
I sat up straight. Four fifty per session? That was triple my normal rate.
"What's the case?"
Papers rustled on her end. "Zachary Hale. Arrested for aggravated assault at a charity gala three months ago. Plead guilty, received suspended sentence with mandatory psychiatric treatment as condition of probation."
Zachary Hale. The name sounded familiar, but I couldn't place it.
"What kind of assault?"
"He beat another man nearly to death with his bare hands. Victim required reconstructive facial surgery. Mr. Hale stopped when security pulled him off, otherwise..." She paused. "The victim would likely be dead."
My stomach turned. "And you want me to treat him?"
"You specialize in criminal psychology, Dr. Reeves. Your dissertation on psychopathic personality disorders came highly recommended by the judge. Mr. Hale's previous three therapists have all declined to continue treatment."
Three therapists refused him. Red flag number one.
But four hundred fifty dollars per session. Fifty-four hundred dollars a month. That would cover rent, my father's surgery, maybe even start chipping away at the loans.
"Send me his file," I heard myself say. "I'll review it and let you know."
"The file is extensive. I'll email it within the hour. Mr. Hale is eager to begin treatment. He specifically requested you after reading your academic work."
She hung up before I could ask what that meant.
The file arrived forty minutes later. I opened it on my laptop, and my blood went cold.
Crime scene photos loaded first. A man's face, completely destroyed. Broken nose, shattered orbital bones, jaw hanging at an unnatural angle. Blood everywhere. The photos went on and on, each one more horrific than the last.
I scrolled to the psychiatric evaluation, my hands trembling.
'Patient: Zachary Hale, 35 years old'
'IQ: 156 (99.9th percentile)'
'Diagnosis: Antisocial Personality Disorder with psychopathic features'
'Assessment: Patient demonstrates classic psychopathic traits including lack of empathy, superficial charm, manipulative behavior, and inability to form genuine emotional attachments. Patient has been aware of diagnosis since age 15. Shows no remorse for violent incident. Describes assault in purely clinical terms as "logical solution to eliminate threat." Patient is highly intelligent and fully aware of social norms but views them as guidelines to manipulate rather than rules to follow.'
'Recommendation: Long-term intensive therapy, though prognosis for meaningful change is poor. Patient is dangerous and should be monitored closely.'
I kept reading. Zachary Hale wasn't just any criminal. He was a self-made billionaire. Eight billion dollars in net worth from tech investments and venture capital. Princeton educated. Ruthlessly successful. And according to every psychological assessment, completely incapable of empathy.
I clicked on the next document. His statement to police.
"The victim, Marcus Webb, threatened to expose certain business practices that would have caused significant financial damage to my company and investors. When verbal negotiations failed, I determined that physical intimidation was the most efficient solution. I calculated that public assault would demonstrate my willingness to protect my interests while the legal consequences would be manageable given my resources. I stopped when security intervened because continuing would have escalated charges from assault to murder, which would have been counterproductive."
He described beating a man's face to pulp like he was explaining a business strategy. No emotion. No regret. Just cold calculation.
I should have closed the file right then. Should have emailed Janet Mills and said absolutely not.
But I thought about my father. About the surgery he needed. About the eviction notice.
Four hundred fifty dollars per session.
My phone buzzed. Email notification.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Looking Forward
I opened it, my heart pounding.
Dr. Reeves,
I hope the court has contacted you regarding our sessions. I want you to know that I specifically requested you as my therapist. I've read your dissertation, "The Neurobiology of Moral Disengagement in Criminal Populations," three times. Your analysis of how intelligent individuals rationalize antisocial behavior is the most insightful work I've encountered on the subject.
I'm sure the file they sent you is alarming. I'm sure you're questioning whether you should take this case. I would be disappointed if you weren't.
But I think you and I will have fascinating conversations, Dr. Reeves. I think you understand people like me better than you let on. Better than you might want to admit.
I'll count the hours until we meet.
Zachary Hale
I stared at the email, my skin crawling.
He'd read my dissertation. My obscure academic work that barely anyone had looked at. He'd found it, studied it, and used it to request me specifically.
This wasn't random. This was calculated.
My finger hovered over the delete button. Every instinct I had screamed danger. This man was a predator, and he'd already started hunting.
But then I looked at the eviction notice. At my bank balance. At the hospital bills for my father's surgery piling up on my desk.
Two hundred forty-seven dollars.
I closed my eyes and typed my response.
Mr. Hale,
I've reviewed your file. I can see you Tuesday at 2 PM. My office address is below.
Dr. Nina Reeves
I hit send before I could change my mind.
My phone buzzed immediately. Another email. Sent at 4:07 AM.
He'd been awake, waiting for my response. In the middle of the night.
Dr. Reeves,
Perfect. I'll see you Tuesday.
And Nina? You can call me Zachary. I have a feeling we're going to know each other very well.
Z.
The way he used my first name made my stomach drop. I hadn't given him permission. Hadn't established that boundary.
But he'd crossed it anyway, casually, like he already owned the right to my name.
I looked at the crime scene photos still open on my screen. At the man's destroyed face. At the psychiatric evaluation that called Zachary Hale dangerous.
What had I just agreed to?
My phone lit up one more time. Another email. 4:09 AM.
P.S. I'm looking forward to our fascinating conversations.
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