I didn't sleep after that text message.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Marcus Chen's destroyed face and heard that quote: "I don't feel what other people feel. I've learned to simulate it."
At 6 AM, I gave up and made coffee. My hands shook as I poured it.
I spent the morning preparing my office, which was generous considering the thrift store furniture and water-stained ceiling tile. The space screamed "struggling therapist," which was accurate but embarrassing.
At 1:45 PM, I heard footsteps in the hallway.
Not just any footsteps. Confident, measured, expensive leather on cheap linoleum. The walk of someone who'd never questioned whether they belonged somewhere.
The footsteps stopped outside my door.
I stood, smoothing my blouse unnecessarily. Took a deep breath. I'd treated violent offenders before. I could handle this.
The knock came precisely at 2:00 PM.
"Come in," I called out.
The door opened.
Zachary Hale stepped into my office, and every thought in my head just stopped.
The photographs hadn't done him justice.
He was tall, at least six-two, with dark hair styled in that effortlessly perfect way that probably took hours to achieve. The suit he wore was charcoal grey, perfectly tailored, the kind of expensive that didn't need labels. Everything about him screamed wealth, power, control.
But it was his face that made my breath catch. Devastatingly handsome. Strong jawline, high cheekbones. And his eyes, dark and intense, focused entirely on me with attention that felt physical.
Those eyes were exactly like the photographs: beautiful and completely empty.
"Dr. Reeves," he said, his voice like expensive whiskey. "Thank you for seeing me on such short notice."
He extended his hand.
I hesitated before taking it. His grip was firm, warm, perfectly measured. Not too hard, not too soft.
Practiced. Calculated. Performed.
"Please, have a seat, Mr. Hale," I said, gesturing to the client chair.
"Zachary," he corrected, settling into the chair with ease that made my thrift store furniture look almost elegant. "We're going to be spending a lot of time together. Might as well use first names."
Boundary violation right away. First names implied familiarity, equality. We weren't equals.
"I prefer to maintain professional boundaries," I said carefully. "Mr. Hale is fine."
His smile widened, and I noticed it didn't reach his eyes at all. The expression was perfect (warm, friendly, charming) but his eyes remained cold.
"Of course. Professional boundaries. Very important." He paused. "You've clearly given this speech before."
I opened my notepad. "You've been mandated to complete fifty sessions as part of your plea agreement. My role is to help you understand the factors that contributed to your assault on Marcus Chen and develop healthier coping mechanisms."
"How many of your court-mandated patients actually change, Dr. Reeves?"
The question caught me off guard.
"That depends on their willingness to engage with the process."
"That's not an answer." He tilted his head. "The real answer is probably 'very few,' isn't it? Most people don't change. They just learn to hide their patterns better. To perform rehabilitation."
My hand tightened on my pen. "Are you planning to perform rehabilitation, Mr. Hale?"
"I'm planning to do whatever's necessary to avoid prison. If that means sitting here for fifty hours telling you what you want to hear, then that's what I'll do. I'm very good at telling people what they want to hear."
"That's not therapy. That's manipulation."
"Isn't all therapy manipulation? You manipulate me toward healthier behaviors. I manipulate you into thinking I'm making progress." He leaned back. "The only difference is I'm honest about it."
I stared at him. Most patients pretended to want help. Zachary had stripped away all pretense immediately.
"I can document your lack of engagement," I said. "Report to the court that you're not taking this seriously. Then you'll go to prison anyway."
"You could. But you won't."
"And why not?"
"Because you need the money." His eyes never left mine. "You're three months behind on rent. You have a hundred forty thousand in student loans. Your car died last week. Your father is dying of cancer and his treatment costs twelve thousand a month that insurance won't cover. You need this case. You need fifty thousand dollars more than you need your ethical principles."
All the air left my lungs.
He knew. Everything.
"How..."
"I research everyone I work with. It's good practice." He tilted his head. "I know you took the bus here. I know you're eating ramen four nights a week. I know your mother called crying about treatment being denied. I know everything about you, Dr. Reeves."
My heart pounded. "That's a violation of privacy."
"That's due diligence. You did the same thing. Researched me last night. Found that psychology journal from when I was ten." He paused. "So we both know who we're dealing with. I'm a diagnosed sociopath who beat a man nearly to death. You're a desperate psychologist who needs money more than ethics. Now we can have an honest conversation."
"That's not fair. I'm not unethical."
"Drowning?" he supplied. "Desperate? Making impossible choices between principles and family survival? I'm not judging. I'm being honest about our situation. You need me. I need to avoid prison. We can help each other."
"Why did you beat Marcus Chen?" I asked abruptly.
"Because he tried to blackmail me. He had information about business dealings that weren't entirely legal. Threatened to expose them unless I paid five million. I don't respond well to threats."
"So you nearly killed him?"
"I responded proportionally. He tried to destroy everything I built. I made sure he'd never threaten me again."
"That's not proportional! That's attempted murder!"
"Is it? He's alive. He'll recover fully. I call that measured restraint."
I wrote frantically. "Do you feel any remorse? Any guilt?"
"Should I?"
"Yes! You hospitalized a man!"
"A man who tried to blackmail me. Who threatened my business, my freedom, my life. Why should I feel bad about protecting myself?"
"Because you nearly killed someone!"
"But I didn't. I could have. Easily. But I calculated exactly how much damage I could do without causing permanent disability." His voice remained calm. "That took considerable restraint."
My stomach turned. He'd calculated the violence. Measured it.
"This is why you need therapy. Your moral compass is broken."
"My moral compass isn't broken. It's different." He leaned back. "You see morality as absolute. Good and bad. I see it as contextual. Marcus violated the social contract. I responded. In nature, that's survival."
"We're not animals, Mr. Hale. We have laws, ethics..."
"We have constructs that people with power use to control people without power. And I have power, Dr. Reeves. That's what bothers you, isn't it? Not that I hurt someone. But that I have enough money to turn attempted murder into therapy."
I opened my mouth, then closed it. He wasn't entirely wrong. The system was broken.
"You're trying to manipulate me."
"I'm trying to help you understand. There's a difference." He studied me. "You know I'm right about the system. Wealthy clients get therapy. Poor clients get prison. Justice isn't blind. She's bought and paid for."
"That doesn't make what you did okay!"
"No. But it makes it understandable." He paused. "You're doing the same thing right now. Taking my case even though you know I'm dangerous. Because you need money more than principles."
My hands shook. I put down my pen.
"Our time is up," I said. We had fifteen minutes left, but I couldn't continue.
"Already?" He stood, buttoning his jacket. "Time flies."
"Same time next week."
"Looking forward to it." He walked to the door, then paused. "You know what I find most interesting about you, Dr. Reeves?"
I didn't answer.
"You're brilliant. I've read all your work. You understand the criminal mind better than anyone I've met." He paused. "But you're also naive. You still believe the system works. That being good matters. That following rules leads to justice. I'm fascinated by how someone so intelligent can believe in fairy tales."
"They're not fairy tales. They're principles."
"They're comforting lies." His smile sharpened. "But you're not sleeping at night anymore, are you? You're lying awake thinking about treatment costs, student loans, how you did everything right and still ended up drowning. You're questioning those fairy tales. That's when things get interesting."
My throat was tight. "Get out."
"Of course. Professional boundaries." He opened the door. "Oh, one more thing."
"What?"
"You're exactly what I hoped you'd be." His eyes locked onto mine. "Brilliant enough to understand me. Desperate enough to need me. Conflicted enough to make this fascinating. We're going to have remarkable conversations."
He left, closing the door quietly.
I sat frozen, heart pounding, mind racing.
That had been the most unsettling session of my career.
Zachary was everything the file warned about and worse. He'd stripped away all pretense, all professional distance.
And worst of all, he'd been right about me.
I did need the money. Was desperate for it. Would compromise ethics to get it.
My phone buzzed. Unknown number.
"Thank you for an excellent first session. I learned a great deal about you. I think you learned something about yourself too. Same time next week."
Then another text:
"Before we begin, Dr. Reeves, you should know: I'm not here to get better. I'm here because a judge said so. But I am here to study you. To understand how someone like you thinks. You fascinate me. And I think I fascinate you too."
I stared at the message, hands shaking.
Because he was right.
God help me, he was right.
I was fascinated. Terrified and horrified, but also fascinated in a way I hadn't felt in years.
Zachary Hale was the most dangerous patient I'd ever treated.
And I'd just agreed to spend fifty hours alone with him.
What scared me most wasn't his violence or lack of empathy.
It was that part of me wanted to understand him. Wanted to see the world through his eyes. Wanted to know what it felt like to be that powerful, that free from conscience.
I should establish boundaries. Report his inappropriate contact.
Instead, I typed: "See you next week, Mr. Hale."
His response came immediately: "I knew you'd respond. You can't help yourself. Neither can I. This is going to be fascinating."
I turned off my phone and sat until sunset, thinking about empty eyes and dangerous smiles and the way Zachary had looked at me like he could see the part of myself I'd been hiding.
The part that was tired of being good.
The part that wanted power instead of powerlessness.
The part that was already, after one session, starting to understand why someone might choose to be a monster.
Because monsters didn't drown in debt.
Monsters didn't watch their fathers die.
Monsters took what they wanted.
And Zachary had just offered me a glimpse of that.
I was terrified.
But I was also curious.
And that curiosity felt dangerous.