Chapter 7
The office closes at noon on Wednesdays. It's a short day, but it's always the same routine: a 30-minute session with him, and then I'm free to head home. He's punctual, like clockwork. Today, he's sitting across from me, his gaze fixed on his hands, his mind somewhere far away. He doesn't talk much, and honestly, I prefer it that way. Silence suits him. Silence suits us both.
Our first meeting was… enlightening. I knew from the start that therapy wouldn't change him. He doesn't respond to treatment, not in the conventional sense. He's simple-minded, in a way, but not in the way most people would assume. He's detached, removed from the world of human emotions. He exists in his own reality, and I've learned to navigate it. It was a risk, taking him on as a client, but it paid off. He trusts me. He tells me everything.
Even about the old man.
"He's been following me," he said once, his voice calm, almost amused. "For a year now. He saw me that night at the building. The one with the actor."
I remember the way he said it, so casually, like he was discussing the weather. I asked him why he hadn't dealt with the old man, why he let him linger. His answer surprised me.
"No one's ever kept tabs on me before," he said, shrugging. "It gets lonely sometimes. I like the company. It's… comforting."
Comforting. That's the word he used. A sane person would have been horrified, but not him. He's not like other people. He doesn't feel things the way they do. Fear, guilt, remorse, those are foreign concepts to him. And yet, there's a strange kind of logic to his reasoning. The old man is a nuisance, but he's harmless. A distraction. A companion, in his own twisted way.
"He goes to the police," he added once, almost laughing. "Every week, like clockwork. He tells them about me, about our sessions. But they don't care. No one cares. So why should I?"
He's right. A year has passed, and there's been no police summons, no investigation, no consequences. The old man is shouting into the void, and no one is listening. Not even me, really. I've stopped worrying about it. He's not a threat. Not to me, and certainly not to *him*.
I stood up, grabbing a folder from my desk. He watched me as I walked over and handed it to him. He opened it, flipping through the pages with that same detached curiosity. Inside were photos, notes, a life laid bare.
"She's an alcoholic," I explained. "Her daughter, Jamie, is a sweet girl. Too sweet. The mother's boyfriend has been… problematic. I'm thinking of eliminating him, but I need to be sure. The mother might be the real issue. I'll have a few sessions with her to confirm. For now, take care of the boyfriend. Let's see how things play out."
I reached into my desk drawer and pulled out a brown envelope, thick with cash. He took it without a word, his eyes flicking briefly to mine. He's smart. He noticed the increase immediately.
"You raised it," he said, his tone neutral.
I nodded. "You keep making me proud. Plus, you deserve it."
He held my gaze for a moment, then stood, tucking the folder and envelope under his arm. Without another word, he left. Just like that. Efficient. Unemotional. Perfect.
I glanced at the clock. My next appointment wasn't for another hour. Plenty of time to freshen up. I grabbed my bag, checked my reflection in the mirror, and smiled. Today was a good day. Everything was going according to plan.