The subway smelled like stale coffee and someone's aggressive cologne, and I was crammed between a man reading the Post and a teenager whose music leaked from his headphones like a heartbeat. I clutched the pole and tried not to think about the fact that I used to drive to work. Used to have a car that started when I turned the key.
Now I had three bus transfers and a prayer that I wouldn't be late to meet a psychopath.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out, already knowing who it was.
Sarah Chen. My closest friend from grad school and the only colleague who still returned my calls.
Coffee before your day starts? You sounded weird yesterday.
I typed back quickly: Can't. New client at 9. High-profile case.
Her response was immediate: High-profile or high-risk? You have a tell when you're doing something stupid.
I almost smiled. Sarah knew me too well. We'd survived our doctoral program together, spent countless nights dissecting case studies and complaining about our advisor's impossible standards. She'd landed a cushy position at a university counseling center. Good hours. Benefits. Stability.
I'd chosen criminal psychology because I believed in second chances.
Look where that got me.
It's court-mandated therapy. Assault case. Pays well.
How well?
Well enough.
Nina. Who is it?
I hesitated, my thumb hovering over the keyboard. Then I typed: Zachary Hale.
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
THE Zachary Hale? The billionaire who beat someone half to death?
That's the one.
Are you insane?
Probably, I thought. But I wrote: I need the money, Sarah. Desperately. And it's just therapy. Fifty sessions. Then I'm done.
Psychopaths don't do therapy, Nina. They do research. On you. Please tell me you're at least being careful.
I thought about his 4 AM email. The way he'd already violated boundaries before we'd even met.
I'm always careful.
Another lie. I was getting good at those.
The subway lurched to a stop, and I shoved my phone back in my pocket. My office was three blocks away. I had twenty minutes.
I made it with five minutes to spare, breathless and sweating despite the October chill. My receptionist, Marie, looked up from her desk with her usual expression of mild concern. She was sixty-two, had worked for the practice since before I took over the lease, and treated me like a daughter who consistently disappointed her.
"You look terrible," she said by way of greeting.
"Good morning to you too, Marie."
"Your nine o'clock called. He'll be here in two minutes. He wanted to make sure you knew he values punctuality." She raised an eyebrow. "Sounds like a charmer."
"He's a court-mandated client. Charm isn't required."
"Hmm." Marie handed me a folder. "His intake forms. He filled them out online last night. Very thorough."
I took the folder and headed to my office, my heels clicking on the old tile floor. The space was small but professional. Cream walls. Two chairs facing each other. A desk tucked in the corner. Certificates on the wall proving I'd earned the right to sit here and pretend I had my life together.
I sat down and opened Zachary's intake forms.
Emergency contact: None.
Medications: None.
Previous therapy: None.
Reason for seeking treatment: Court-mandated following assault conviction.
Goals for therapy: To satisfy legal requirements.
I almost laughed. At least he was honest.
Marie's voice crackled through the intercom. "Dr. Reeves? Your nine o'clock is here."
My stomach clenched. "Send him in."
I stood, smoothed my skirt, and reminded myself that I was the professional here. I had the PhD. The training. The authority.
The door opened.
Zachary Hale walked into my office like he owned it.
He was tall. That was my first thought. At least six-two, maybe more. Dark hair, perfectly styled. Wearing a suit that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe. But it was his face that made my breath catch. Sharp jawline. High cheekbones. Dark eyes that were too focused, too intense.
He looked like he should be on a magazine cover, not in a therapist's office for beating someone nearly to death.
"Dr. Reeves." His voice was deep, controlled. "Thank you for seeing me on such short notice."
He extended his hand.
I shook it. His grip was firm, warm, and lasted exactly the appropriate amount of time. Textbook professional greeting. He'd practiced this.
"Mr. Hale. Please, have a seat."
He sat without hesitation, crossing one leg over the other. Comfortable. In control. Like this was his office and I was the visitor.
I sat across from him and picked up my notepad, a barrier between us.
"Before we begin," I said, "I need to address the email you sent me this morning."
"The one at 4:23 AM?" He didn't look apologetic. "I apologize if the timing was inappropriate. I don't sleep much."
"The timing isn't the issue. The contact itself is. We hadn't established a therapeutic relationship yet. Reaching out before our first session crosses professional boundaries."
"I see." He tilted his head slightly, studying me. "You're concerned I'm attempting to manipulate the power dynamic before we've even begun."
"Are you?"
"Perhaps." A small smile. "Or perhaps I was simply excited to meet someone who might actually understand me. Your work suggests you have insight into how people like me think."
"People like you?"
"Psychopaths, Dr. Reeves. We can use the clinical term. I'm not offended by accuracy."
I wrote that down. Not the words themselves, but my reaction to them. He was completely comfortable with his diagnosis. No shame. No deflection.
"Do you understand why you're here, Mr. Hale?"
"The judge mandated fifty sessions of therapy as an alternative to incarceration. I chose therapy because prison would interfere with my business operations."
"Not because you want to change?"
"Change into what?" He leaned forward slightly. "Someone who feels remorse? Empathy? Guilt? Those emotions don't exist in my neurological structure, Dr. Reeves. I can't manufacture them any more than you can manufacture a third arm."
"Then what's the point of therapy?"
"Excellent question. What is the point?" He smiled again, and it didn't reach his eyes. "Perhaps you can help me learn to pretend more effectively. Isn't that what society wants? For people like me to wear better masks?"
I set down my pen. "I'm not here to teach you to manipulate people more efficiently."
"Then what are you here for?"
"To help you understand the impact of your actions. To develop healthier coping mechanisms. To—"
"To rehabilitate me?" He laughed, and the sound was wrong. Too controlled. "Dr. Reeves, I've read your dissertation. Your entire theoretical framework is built on the premise that criminal behavior stems from trauma, from environmental factors that can be addressed and healed. But what if that's not true? What if some of us are simply built differently?"
"Everyone is capable of growth."
"Are they? Or is that just something we tell ourselves because the alternative is too uncomfortable?"
I felt my jaw tighten. "You're very articulate for someone who's supposed to be participating in therapy, not debating it."
"I'm very articulate in general. IQ of 156. Top one percent. Surely that was in my file?"
"It was."
"Then you know I'm not going to be your typical patient. I'm not going to cry about my childhood or have some breakthrough about my mother. I know exactly what I am. I've known since I was fifteen."
"When you killed your family's dog."
His expression didn't change. "When I killed our family's dog to see what it felt like. The answer, if you're curious, was nothing. No guilt. No remorse. Just curiosity satisfied."
My skin crawled, but I kept my voice steady. "And Daniel Morrison? The man you put in the hospital? Did you feel nothing then too?"
"Correct. He attempted to blackmail me regarding certain business practices. I calculated the most efficient response. Violence was the answer."
"You could have paid him. Or ignored him. Or reported him."
"Paying him would establish a precedent that I could be extorted. Ignoring him would allow him to damage my company. Reporting him would reveal information I prefer to keep private. Violence was the optimal solution."
"Except you got caught."
"A miscalculation. I should have been more careful about witnesses. That was a strategic error, not a moral one."
I stared at him, this man who discussed beating someone nearly to death like it was a business decision. "Do you understand that you hurt someone? That Daniel Morrison has permanent injuries because of you?"
"I understand the facts. He has a titanium plate in his jaw. Reconstructed orbital bone. Chronic pain. I'm aware of the consequences."
"But you don't care."
"I can't care, Dr. Reeves. That's the point. The neurological pathways that create empathy don't function in my brain. I can understand intellectually that I've caused harm. But I can't feel it. It's like asking a blind person to describe color."
I wanted to argue. To tell him he was wrong, that everyone could change, that my entire career wasn't built on a lie.
But looking into his dark, empty eyes, I wasn't sure anymore.
"Why did you read my dissertation?" I asked suddenly.
He blinked, and for the first time, he looked surprised. "Excuse me?"
"My dissertation. It's seven years old. Published in an obscure academic journal. Even my committee barely read it. Why did you?"
"Because I'm thorough. When I'm interested in something, I learn everything about it."
"And you're interested in me?"
"I'm interested in whether you can actually help me. Or whether this is fifty sessions of expensive performance art." He paused. "And yes, Dr. Reeves. I find you interesting. You're intelligent. You've built your entire identity around the belief that people can change, that rehabilitation is possible. I'm curious what happens when you're confronted with someone who can't change. Who doesn't want to. Will your optimism survive? Or will I break it?"
My heart pounded against my ribs. "This isn't a game, Mr. Hale."
"Everything is a game, Dr. Reeves. The question is whether you know you're playing."
We stared at each other across the small space, and I felt something shift. This wasn't a therapeutic relationship. This was a war.
And I was already losing.
"Our time is up," I said, even though we still had ten minutes.
He stood smoothly. "Same time next week?"
"Tuesday. Nine AM."
"I'll be here." He moved toward the door, then paused. "Dr. Reeves? Thank you for being honest with me. Most people pretend they're not afraid. You didn't bother. I appreciate that."
He left before I could respond.
I sat alone in my office, my hands shaking, and wondered what the hell I'd just agreed to.
My phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number.
You did well today. Most therapists try to fix me in the first session. You just tried to understand me. That's... refreshing. See you Tuesday. —Z
I stared at the message.
He had my personal number now.
And I had no idea how he'd gotten it.