The Tease (The Darling Killer Trilogy) (2 page)

Clients think that I help
them
, but it works both ways.

I walked back into my office, scribbled a few notes on the termination form, put it in her case folder, and hugged the folder to my heart. Part of me wanted to jump up and down like a game show contestant. Part of me wanted to weep at the beauty of it. Part of me wanted a nap and a hot bath.

Katie. Even though she did the heavy lifting, it felt like a victory. After five years, a broken jaw, a fractured tailbone, a sprained ankle, a broken cheekbone, a dislocated shoulder, a broken arm, a ruptured spleen, seventeen cigarette burns, forty-nine stitches, and countless bruises, she had found the courage to leave her boyfriend and begin the daunting task of rebuilding herself and her life. Mostly, I listened and asked questions. Katie did the work. Katie went to the police and got her ex behind bars. Katie struggled, wept, and blossomed. She found her voice.

Some friends have told me they don’t know how I can handle seeing what I do. I don’t either, honestly. I can usually sit with the dark stuff and be fine. I could never fully explain, though, what an honor it is to bear witness to another person’s courage. Whatever you’re facing – addiction, abuse, depression – staring down your inner demons demands the kind of integrity and grace that makes my heart ache with the intolerable splendor of it.

I checked the clock. It was only 3:05, which didn’t seem fair, somehow. I opened my desk drawer, pulled out my appointment book, and opened it.
Not like it’s magically going to be different now
, I thought wryly. Max. 3:30.

It was my turn to walk down the hall and take a deep breath.

I knocked on Jeff’s half-open door. “Boss?”

“Hey, Anna.”

“OK.” I hovered in the doorway. “Do you have a second?”
Please say not now. Please.

“C’mon in.”

Shit.
I walked in, shut the door, and sat down in one of the chairs across his desk from him. Jeff’s office was roughly twice the size of mine, with the same mustard-and-rust theme. His dark wood desk-and-credenza set surrounded him on three sides, so he conducted therapy sessions in one of the cozy therapy rooms down the hall; otherwise, it would seem like a fortress or a principal’s office. His doctoral diploma and Illinois license proclaimed his expertise from the wall above his desk. I kept my framed diploma and license on my bookshelf, where I could easily show them to clients who asked, but ostensibly so I didn’t have authority symbols in their face all the time.

Honestly, I just got tired of explaining my full name to everyone who walked in.

I sat in one of the two chairs facing his desk. He turned away from his computer and faced me, folding his hands in front of him. Jeff looked like a guy you’d see in a perfume ad, turning his head to catch sight of a mysterious blonde who just smiles and disappears around the corner: clean-shaven, short dark hair, muddy green eyes. It was precisely the kind of bland attractiveness that failed to register with me. When my closest friend, Monica, had come to meet me for lunch, she’d said, “Holy crap, you didn’t tell me he’s hot!” I’d looked at her quizzically and said, “No one told me that, either.”

He did have a sincere smile, though. I liked sincerity.

“What’s goin’ on?” he asked.

“I’m wondering if we can get Max Shelton assigned to someone else.”

“Hm.” His eyes strayed to the upper left hand corner of the room as he processed it. “How come?”

I sighed and ran both hands through my hair, hiding my face. “I think I’m attracted to him,” I said through clenched teeth.

“Ah,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “It does happen.”

I rested one elbow on his desk, dropping one hand, letting the other hold my head up. “Not to me.”

He chuckled. “In your vast experience?” he teased.

“I’ve been a woman for a lot longer than I’ve been a counselor,” I said. “I’m very good at not being attracted to inappropriate men.”

“Now there’s a book that would make you some money,” he quipped, but I could see the gears turning behind his eyes. “First, I want to acknowledge that you’re doing the right thing in talking to me. I know it can be nerve-wracking.”

Therapists. No matter what happens, you know you’ll be validated. “I know,” I said. “I—” I cut myself off as my phone buzzed. “Argh. I’ll switch that off.” As I flicked the silent switch, I noticed a text message from Tish:
Everyone please remember the ruffled panties.
Cripes.
I hastily stuffed it in my purse. “Sorry.”

He grinned. “Who was that?”

“Just a friend. Something silly.”

“I’ve never seen you blush before.”

“Am I?” I pressed my palm to my cheek, which did feel warm. “I’m just – you know, flustered by this whole thing.”

“I see.” He had a particularly piercing gaze which he reserved for certain key therapeutic moments like then. I was good at silence, though, so I waited. “So what do you think a person should do if they run into this issue?”

Good. Take the person out of the hot seat by asking the question in third person instead of second. I sighed again. “Tell their supervisor, work through it, and never ever ever ever sleep with a client.”

“That’s right. I could go on and on about psychodynamics and power differentials and the intimacy of the therapeutic relationship, but I think you know all that stuff. The real question is – are you just going to be uncomfortable for a while, or is this going to stop you from doing your job?”

An image of Grant flashed into my mind.
His hair falling into his dark eyes, his shy smile, his soft voic
e. I might go home and eat an entire bag of potato chips after rehearsal, but I could always hit the stage. “I can do the job,” I said.

“What is it that attracts you to him?”

“I don’t know. He’s quiet and British and sweet. And he has nice hair.”

He nodded. “There are worse reasons. How many sessions have you had so far?”

“Just the intake.”

“That’s what I thought. What’s the presenting problem?”

“Low self-esteem. He wants to overcome self-doubt and build self-confidence.”

“That’s well within your capabilities,” he assured me.

I raised an eyebrow. “I’m supposed to help this guy believe he’s a lovable person. Can it get any worse?”

“Give it time. He might reveal something that changes your perspective on him.”

“I will.”

“Feel better?”

“I do,” I said. “Thanks for listening.”

“Any time,” he said. “Hey, how’s the studying?”

“It’s good. Still listening to Walter in the car.”

“That’s coming up soon, isn’t it?”

“A week from Tuesday.”

“There’s nothing to be anxious about,” he said. “You’ll be fine.”

“I’m not anxious.”

He looked pointedly at my stomach. I had been pressing both hands into it since he mentioned the test, without noticing consciously. The National Clinical Mental Health Exam required two thousand hours of experience, two years in the field, and an assload of studying. If I weren’t one of the thirty percent who fail, I’d get my clinical license, which meant I could bill insurance companies, get into a higher pay bracket, and go into private practice if I wanted. No big deal, honest. I shook a fist at him in mock irritation and headed back to my office.

• • •

The intercom buzzed, and my pulse sped up.
Stop that,
I told myself sternly. It was the last thing I needed. I couldn’t stop myself from smoothing my grey pencil skirt, making sure my pink, faux angora sweater wasn’t bunching and checking that the clasp on my pearl necklace was behind my neck.

There’s nothing wrong with looking polished.

I let Max in and exchanged pleasantries on auto-pilot. He stood almost an entire foot taller than I, with a shock of unruly sand-brown hair that I wanted to tousle. He wore an olive-green, waffle-weave shirt that emphasized the definition in his arms and shoulders. I resolved to be diligent about eye contact.

You’d make a ludicrous-looking couple
, I reminded myself. I had black hair, grey eyes, and ghost-pale skin. People often compared me to a daguerreotype or Japanese watercolor.

That’s a lie. One artist compared me to a daguerreotype, and a photographer once said I looked like a Japanese watercolor. Most people compared me to whatever dark-haired woman they remembered from old TV shows about horror movie clichés, or simply said “
Jeez
are you pale.” Unless they were telling me I was short. I never understood why people felt the need to inform me I was short. It’s not as if I had failed to notice.

“We made a lot of progress with your background and history last week,” I said once we sat, “and I appreciate you letting me ask a million and a half questions. I’d like to find out more about the insecurity you described.”

He shifted and looked away briefly. “Well. It’s not – exactly – insecurity,” he said. “I might be sort of depressed.”

Almost everyone says they’re feeling depressed. We call that the “presenting problem.” No one walks in stamped with a diagnosis, and everyone is more than their diagnosis anyway. I nodded and waited, projecting openness. Sometimes silence is the best tool. If a person is struggling, and you wait, eventually they’ll blurt something just to end the pause.

He ran his own fingers through his hair and looked up at me from between his forearms. “I might be absolutely mad.”

“Why do you say so?”

“I have these… urges,” he said. “They’re embarrassing.”

I skimmed my memories of our first session.
Stern prim mother, quiet father, upbringing religious, but not excessively so. Perhaps more repressive than I thought?

“It’s about women,” he said. “I like– cold women.”

“Cold how?”
If he’s attracted to women who aren’t affectionate, that could certainly contribute to self-esteem issues. If they’re outright cruel, then we could be facing issues of emotional abuse. If—

“Cold, temperature-wise,” he said and exhaled deeply. “God, you must think I’m awful.”

My internal therapist patter hit a wall and slid down, leaving a slick residue of theory and positive regard. “I don’t think you’re awful.”

“It’s such a relief to actually say it,” he said and collapsed back into the sofa. “It’s so hard to ask for what I… want… in a relationship.” He leaned forward again. “My last girlfriend…” He bit his lip and closed his eyes. “I asked her to lie outside in the snow once, just for a few minutes. And then to lie really still while we – it was the best sex I’d ever had – but she broke it off. I think it bothered her. And it should, it’s fucking
weird
.”

“OK,” I said, mentally flailing about for a response. “I understand that you’re struggling with this, but I wonder what judging yourself accomplishes.”

“I’m trying to make myself stop thinking that way.”

“Not everyone has the same sexual fantasies. We’re taught that sex is a shameful thing, so sometimes the mind will create fantasies that satisfy a metaphorical longing. There could be something very normal at the root of this desire.”
God, I hope so.

“D’you really think so?” he asked.

“Let’s talk about this a little more,” I said. “I’d like to understand. What do you like about it?”

“OK,” he said, and he frowned. “It feels like… like I’m warming her up.” He smiled faintly. Addicts often smile when they recount their behavior, even when they say they want to quit. Reliving can be pleasurable.

“Like… bringing Sleeping Beauty back to life?” I asked hopefully.

His smile disappeared. “Not quite,” he said. “I don’t think that far. It’s the heat, the passion, with the ice, and –” He pressed his fist to his mouth. “I’m worried I might hurt someone.”

“How might you hurt someone?” I asked carefully.
Please, please let him say he’s worried about frostbite.

“Those murders in the news,” he said. “The Darling Killer. I can’t stop thinking about them.”

He might say something that changes your perspective. Thank you, Jeff, for the understatement of the decade
. “Tell me more about that.”

“I’m fascinated with them. I keep going back and reading the news stories, seeing what he did to them. Wondering what it’s like at that moment, when the life is in her eyes and then… isn’t. And then… he writes the word ‘darling’ on them. So… I wonder if he really does love them, in his way, even for a little while.”

“That’s an interesting theory.”

“He strangles them,” Max said. “I read that stranglers do it that way to preserve their beauty.”

Because a bruised neck and crushed windpipe is fucking gorgeous
. I softened my face to make sure the flash of anger didn’t show. “Have you had thoughts about hurting anyone else?”

He shifted. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

Crap. That is extremely diagnostic.
“Have you thought about hurting someone specific?”

“No.” He shook his head. “No, I’m not a monster. I couldn’t – hurt someone I know, if that’s what you mean.”

“OK,” I said.
So if it was a stranger…
I fought not to fidget as I asked the Big Assessment Question. “Do you have a plan?”

He broke eye contact for a second and looked back. “No. I’ve wondered, but I don’t have a plan.”

I considered asking if he owned a weapon, but hesitated. The Darling Killer strangled his victims, so his own hands were weapons. I wanted Max to know I was listening, but I didn’t want him to feel like I was suspicious. Lack of plan generally indicated no immediate danger, and talking about it was a good sign. If he suspected I would report him, he might shut down.

“Max, I think it’s very brave that you talked about this,” I said. “I appreciate the strength it took. It’s hard to talk about things that are so intimate, especially if we’re worried about being judged for them.”

He smiled a little. He interlaced his fingers, rested his elbows on his knees, and looked up at me. “I don’t want you to try to make me feel better,” he said. “I want to stop feeling this – these urges. I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

“I don’t want you to hurt anyone either,” I assured him. “But that statement alone is a positive sign. A lot of individuals who
do
hurt other people know right from wrong, but don’t really care. Maybe they don’t have the capacity to care. You do, and you’re motivated to make the change, so I think you can.”