I didn't sleep that night.
I lay in my tiny bedroom, staring at the water stain on the ceiling that looked like a map of nowhere, and replayed every word of our session. Every pause. Every calculated smile.
Everything is a game, Dr. Reeves. The question is whether you know you're playing.
At three in the morning, I gave up on sleep and opened my laptop. I needed to understand him better. Not just the clinical diagnosis, but who Zachary Hale actually was.
Google gave me 847,000 results.
I started clicking.
Forbes profile from two years ago: "Tech Wunderkind Zachary Hale Disrupts AI Industry." The article gushed about his company, HaleTech, which had developed some revolutionary algorithm I didn't understand. Worth eight billion dollars at thirty-three. Self-made. No family money. Built his empire from nothing.
A Business Insider piece: "The Man Who Doesn't Sleep: Inside Zachary Hale's Eighteen-Hour Workdays." He worked constantly. Slept four hours a night. Had no hobbies, no friends, no romantic relationships on record.
A New York Times profile that made my stomach turn: "The Brilliant Mind Behind the Billion-Dollar Algorithm—And the Emptiness Within." The journalist had spent three days with him. Her conclusion: "Zachary Hale is the loneliest person I've ever met. Not because he has no one, but because he's incapable of connecting with anyone. He's brilliant and isolated by his own neurology."
I clicked on images. Red carpet events. Tech conferences. Always alone. Always in a perfect suit. Always with that same controlled smile that never touched his eyes.
One photo stopped me. A charity gala from five years ago. He was standing with a woman, blonde and elegant, her hand on his arm. The caption read: "Zachary Hale and ex-girlfriend Amanda Chen."
I searched for Amanda Chen.
Found her Instagram. Private account, but her profile photo showed her on a beach, laughing. I found an old interview she'd given to a lifestyle magazine.
Interviewer: "You dated Zachary Hale for six months. What was he like?"
Amanda: "Perfect. Too perfect. Like he'd studied how to be a boyfriend and was performing it flawlessly. But there was nothing underneath. No real emotion. When I broke up with him, he just said, 'I understand. Thank you for your time.' Like I was a business associate, not someone he'd supposedly loved. It was the loneliest relationship I've ever had."
I closed my laptop and pressed my palms against my eyes.
This was my client. A man incapable of human connection who'd beaten someone half to death without feeling anything.
And he had my personal phone number.
My phone buzzed on the nightstand, and I jumped like I'd been shocked.
Unknown number. Again.
Still awake? Me too. Insomnia is exhausting, isn't it? —Z
My fingers hovered over the keyboard. I should ignore this. Should set boundaries. Should tell him this contact was inappropriate.
Instead, I typed: How did you get my number?
I'm resourceful. It's not malicious. I just wanted to see if you were thinking about our session as much as I am.
This isn't appropriate, Mr. Hale.
Zachary. Please. And I apologize. I'll stop.
I waited for him to stop. He didn't.
Did I scare you today?
I stared at the message. The honest answer was yes. But admitting that felt like losing.
You're a challenging client. That's not the same as scary.
You're a terrible liar, Dr. Reeves.
Nina. If we're using first names.
Nina. Even in text, my name in his mouth felt dangerous. Did you research me tonight?
That's confidential.
You did. What did you find?
That you're very good at performing normalcy.
And underneath?
Nothing. According to your ex-girlfriend.
A pause. Then: Amanda talked to you?
I read an old interview.
She's not wrong. There is nothing underneath. Does that bother you?
I didn't know how to answer that. So I went with honesty.
It makes me sad.
Why?
Because everyone deserves to feel connected to something.
Even psychopaths?
Especially them.
Another pause, longer this time. Then:
That's the first time anyone has said that to me. Thank you.
I set my phone down, my chest tight.
This was a mistake. All of it. The case, the late-night texts, the way I was already starting to see him as a person instead of a diagnosis.
But I couldn't afford to quit.
So I turned off my phone and tried to sleep.
I failed.
The next morning, I had three sessions before lunch. A teenager with anxiety. A couple on the edge of divorce. A middle-aged man processing his father's death.
I couldn't focus on any of them.
I kept thinking about Zachary. About his empty eyes and perfect performance. About the way he'd said everything is a game like it was the most obvious truth in the world.
Between sessions, Sarah showed up with coffee and concern.
"You look like hell," she said, setting a latte on my desk.
"Thanks. You always know just what to say."
"I'm serious, Nina. You have that look. The one you got during your dissertation defense when Professor Martinez accused you of being too idealistic."
I wrapped my hands around the coffee cup. "Maybe he was right."
Sarah sat down across from me, her expression shifting from teasing to serious. "What happened with Zachary Hale?"
"Nothing. We had our first session. It was fine."
"Nina."
I sighed. "He's... exactly what you'd expect. Brilliant. Charming. Completely devoid of actual emotion. And he's already texting me at three in the morning."
Sarah's eyebrows shot up. "He has your personal number?"
"Apparently he's resourceful."
"That's not resourceful. That's stalking. Nina, you need to report this. Set boundaries. This guy is dangerous."
"He pays four hundred fifty dollars per session," I said quietly. "I need this, Sarah. My dad needs surgery. I'm about to be evicted. I can't afford to be ethical right now."
"You can't afford not to be." She leaned forward. "Listen to me. I've seen this before. Rich, powerful men who think therapy is a game they can win. They don't want help. They want to prove they're smarter than you. And Zachary Hale is definitely smarter than most people."
"But not smarter than me."
"Are you sure about that?"
I wasn't. But I said, "I'm careful. I know what I'm doing."
Sarah didn't look convinced. "Just promise me something. If this gets weird. If he crosses a line you can't uncross. You'll walk away."
"I promise."
Another lie.
Sarah left, and I sat alone with my coffee and my guilt.
My phone buzzed.
I hope you're having a good day. I'm thinking about our conversation last night. About connection. I'm curious: do you think it's possible to learn to feel something you've never felt before? Or are we all prisoners of our neurology? —Z
I shouldn't respond. Shouldn't engage. Should maintain professional distance.
I typed: I think the brain is more plastic than we give it credit for. Change is always possible.
Even for psychopaths?
Especially for them.
You're an optimist, Nina. That's going to get you hurt.
Or it's going to help you. We'll see.
We will. Looking forward to Tuesday.
I set my phone down and wondered if Sarah was right.
If I was playing a game I couldn't win.
And if Zachary Hale was already three moves ahead.