Tuesday arrived too quickly.
I'd spent three days obsessing over the file, reading Zachary's psychological evaluations until I had them memorized. Psychopath. Incapable of empathy. Dangerous. The words circled my mind like vultures.
I changed my outfit four times that morning. Professional but not vulnerable. Confident but not aggressive. I settled on a grey blazer and black pants, then immediately second-guessed it.
My office felt smaller than usual. The worn carpet, the secondhand desk, the single window overlooking a parking lot. Everything about this space screamed struggling therapist barely keeping her practice alive.
He would see that. He already knew I was desperate. That's probably why he chose me.
At 1:55 PM, Maria buzzed my phone.
"Dr. Reeves? Mr. Hale is here. Should I send him in?"
My heart hammered. "Give me two minutes."
I checked my reflection in the small mirror by the door. Dark circles under my eyes from not sleeping. Hair pulled back too tight. I looked as terrified as I felt.
Good. Better to be honest about fear than pretend I wasn't afraid.
"Okay, Maria. Send him in."
The door opened.
Zachary Hale walked into my office, and every clinical observation I'd prepared vanished from my mind.
He was devastatingly handsome. Six foot two, dark hair perfectly styled, wearing a suit that probably cost more than three months of my rent. His face was sharp angles and perfect symmetry, the kind of face that belonged on magazine covers.
But his eyes. God, his eyes were wrong.
They were intelligent, focused, completely present. But empty. Like looking into beautiful windows with nothing behind them.
"Dr. Reeves." He extended his hand, his smile perfectly calibrated. "Thank you for seeing me."
I shook his hand. His grip was firm, controlled, brief. Everything about him was controlled.
"Please, sit." I gestured to the chair across from my desk.
He sat with deliberate precision, crossing one leg over the other, hands folded in his lap. Studying me the entire time.
"You look nervous," he said. No preamble. Just observation.
"I'd be concerned if I wasn't," I replied, keeping my voice steady. "Your file is extensive."
"Alarming, you mean." He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "The crime scene photos are particularly dramatic. Marcus Webb has fully recovered, by the way. I made sure his medical bills were covered. It seemed appropriate."
The casual way he discussed it made my skin crawl.
"That's what I want to talk about," I said, pulling out my notepad. "The assault. Can you walk me through what happened that night?"
"Of course." He leaned back slightly, utterly relaxed. "The charity gala was for pediatric cancer research. I'd donated two million dollars, so attendance was expected. Marcus Webb approached me near the bar. He'd been drinking. He told me he had evidence of certain financial irregularities in one of my companies and planned to go public unless I paid him five million dollars."
"Blackmail."
"Attempted blackmail," Zachary corrected. "I explained that his evidence was circumstantial and that public accusations would result in a defamation lawsuit that would bankrupt him. He became aggressive. Said he'd destroy me. Grabbed my arm."
Zachary's voice never changed. He could have been describing the weather.
"That's when you hit him?"
"That's when I eliminated the threat." He met my eyes. "He was going to damage my company, my investors, everything I'd built. Verbal negotiation failed. Physical intimidation became the logical solution."
"You beat him until security pulled you off."
"I would have stopped before permanent damage occurred," he said calmly. "I'm not interested in murder. Too many complications. But he needed to understand that threatening me has consequences."
I wrote notes, my hand trembling slightly. "Do you feel any regret about what you did?"
"About the action itself? No. It achieved the desired result. Webb recanted his accusations and disappeared from New York entirely. Problem solved."
"And the victim? The pain you caused him?"
Zachary tilted his head, considering. "I understand intellectually that pain is unpleasant. I caused Marcus significant physical trauma. But do I feel remorse?" He paused. "No. I don't feel much of anything about it."
"Nothing?"
"Nothing." He said it like he was commenting on the weather. "I regret being caught on security cameras. That was sloppy. The legal consequences have been inconvenient. But the act itself was necessary."
I set down my pen. "You understand that most people would find that deeply disturbing."
"Most people aren't like me." He smiled again, that empty expression. "But you knew that already, didn't you? You've read my diagnosis. Antisocial personality disorder with psychopathic features. Age of onset: childhood. Prognosis: poor."
"You've been diagnosed since fifteen."
"Since thirteen, actually. But fifteen was when they made it official." He studied my face. "My parents were concerned when I killed the family dog to see what it felt like. The therapist they hired was very thorough."
My stomach turned. "What did it feel like?"
"Nothing." He said it without hesitation. "That's when I understood I was different. Normal people feel things when living creatures die. I don't."
I tried to maintain my clinical composure. "And that doesn't bother you?"
"Why would it? I can't miss something I've never experienced." He leaned forward slightly. "But I find people like you fascinating, Dr. Reeves. People who feel everything so intensely it paralyzes them."
"What makes you think I feel things intensely?"
"Your dissertation." He pulled out his phone, scrolling briefly. "You wrote: 'The capacity for empathy is simultaneously humanity's greatest strength and most exploitable weakness. Those who feel deeply are most vulnerable to manipulation by those who feel nothing at all.' That's not academic observation. That's personal experience."
Heat crept up my neck. He'd memorized my work.
"You've researched me."
"Extensively." No shame in his voice. "Your father, Michael Reeves. Struggled with addiction for most of your childhood. Multiple arrests for possession. Lost his job, your family home. Your mother Carol worked three jobs to keep you fed. You became a therapist to understand why people self-destruct."
My hands clenched. "That's private."
"It's public record." He kept scrolling. "Student loans: one hundred forty thousand dollars. Current debt in collections. Eviction notice filed last week for your apartment on Roosevelt Street. Your father's in County Hospital awaiting cardiac surgery he can't afford."
I stood up abruptly. "Stop."
He looked up, genuinely curious. "Did I upset you?"
"You invaded my privacy."
"I researched my therapist." He set down his phone. "I wanted to understand who would be analyzing me. Is that really so inappropriate?"
"Yes." My voice shook. "It's a violation."
"But you did the same to me," he pointed out. "You read my file. My history. My diagnosis. The difference is your information was provided by the court. I had to work for mine."
He wasn't wrong, but it felt different. Everything about him felt wrong.
"I think we should establish boundaries," I said, sitting back down. "What we discuss in these sessions is professional. My personal life is not your concern."
"Your personal life affects your judgment." He crossed his arms. "You took my case because you need money desperately. That makes you vulnerable to manipulation. I wanted you to know that I know that."
My face went hot. "Are you saying you plan to manipulate me?"
"I'm saying I could." He smiled. "I'm saying you should be aware that your financial desperation puts you at a disadvantage in our therapeutic relationship. Awareness is protection."
"Why tell me that?"
"Because I like you." He said it simply. "You're intelligent. Your dissertation shows genuine understanding of how people like me think. I don't want to manipulate you. I want honest conversations with someone who actually comprehends what I am."
I didn't know what to say. He was being simultaneously threatening and strangely sincere.
"These sessions are about your rehabilitation," I said carefully. "About helping you develop healthier coping mechanisms."
"I don't need rehabilitation." He leaned back. "I'm perfectly functional. Successful, even. What I need is someone who understands that empathy isn't the only way to navigate the world. Someone who can help me refine my approach without trying to fix something that isn't broken."
"You beat a man nearly to death."
"Inefficiently," he agreed. "That's what needs improvement. The violence was necessary. Getting caught was not."
I stared at him. He wanted me to help him become a better psychopath.
"I can't do that."
"Why not?" He looked genuinely puzzled. "You wrote extensively about how therapeutic approaches fail with antisocial personalities because therapists try to instill empathy that will never develop. Why not work with what exists instead of fighting it?"
Because it was wrong. Because helping him hurt people more effectively would make me complicit. Because everything about this felt like stepping onto ice that was already cracking beneath my feet.
But I needed this case. Needed the money. Needed to save my father.
"I need to think about our approach," I said finally. "This isn't typical therapy."
"Nothing about me is typical." He stood, perfectly smooth. "Same time next week?"
"Yes."
He walked to the door, then paused. "Dr. Reeves? Nina?"
I looked up.
"Thank you for being honest about your fear." His expression softened slightly, the first genuine emotion I'd seen. "Most therapists pretend they're not afraid of me. They smile and nod and lie. But you admitted it. I appreciate that you don't pretend."
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