“Please call me Ace. I’m not a detective or a judge.” I smiled warmly at her, which wasn’t my usual style.
“I’d prefer to maintain a professional respect for you, Mr. Edison. I wish to pursue this. I can pay you today.”
“Great, well, I’ll get Ruth to sort that out for you before you leave. I have all your contact details, so I can call you when I know something. Most of my investigations begin as desktop research, but I’ll consult you before speaking to anybody.”
“I prefer text please, Mr. Edison. Please let me know if you wish to speak to me, and we will arrange a time.”
She was like a human computer. Even her voice was somewhat monotone. No real inflections or warmth. Why was that so fascinating?
“Okay, well, I’ll be in touch, Ms. Myrtle. Would it be okay if I contacted your mother myself?”
For the first time, she showed real emotion. I was pretty adept at monitoring people’s expressions, and in hers, I saw fear.
“No. It would not. Thank you.”
She stood stiffly, her posture guarded.
“Right, not a problem. I’ll see what I can do.”
She nodded yet again, looking at her feet.
“Goodbye, Mr. Edison. Thank you for your assistance in this matter.” She turned, showing me a perfectly formed little ass as she left the room.
I’ll help you, my little Zahra. My Arabic was patchy, and I rarely used it, but for some reason, the Arabic translation of rose sprung to mind the moment I saw this broken, almost-robotic woman. My maternal grandfather spoke Arabic, and despite his best efforts, I never became fluent.
I sat, determined to begin this investigation despite my previous pledge to leave the office early.I’ll find you something my Zahra, I promise.
Chapter 2: The Rose—Distance
When I got to my car, I was shaking. Ace, I mean Mr. Edison, was so nice. And unbelievably handsome. He had dark, solid features. His eyes were inky black and very sharp, which made me nervous. He seemed like the kind of man who didn’t miss a trick, and I’d worked so hard to change my name and overcome my past. He had dark stubble, his complexion indicating that he grew facial hair quickly and easily. I bet he’d just shaved this morning.
Three years in psychiatric custody had been brutal, but every day, I strove to become better, to heal. I must have made some progression because I’d been released two years early with firm conditions: a female psychiatrist, regular therapy, medication compliance, and zero contact with my victims and their families. A social worker regularly checked in with me and my psychiatrist to ensure I was meeting my conditions. And I was. Even without the check-ins, I would never dare veer from my treatment plan.
Primary erotomania, my psychiatrist had told me, apparently withtraits of borderline personality disorder. I took my anti-psychotics religiously every morning, silently chanting one of my mantras.
I take my medication with mindfulness and self-love.
I had no other diagnosed conditions. Schizophrenia had been ruled out, but during my sentence (or my “admission,” as I’d been encouraged to call it), I became sadly aware of my lack of knowledge about the mental health history of my paternal side. Did my father or any of his relatives suffer from a mental health condition? It felt like trying to solve a puzzle with one of the pieces missing. I was also managing my fear of abandonment and felt as though finding my father may assist with this. Maybe he died. Maybe he never knew I existed, and that’s why he wasnever a part of my life. Dr. Sylvia Warren had warned that this was not a solution. I think she was concerned that I would find out that he knew about me and abandoned me anyway.
In an attempt to begin a fresh start and remove toxicity from my life, I had cut ties with my mother, so she wasn’t an option for more information. I didn’t want Mr. Edison poking around in that mess. That was my past. I hated people knowing who I was then, what I had done. I had attacked a man with an old chain because he wouldn’t leave his wife. Dr. Warren had talked about that a lot. It was painful to delve into, but when I was properly medicated, I was forced to go through every part of my delusion. I felt ashamed and embarrassed about my actions. Blake, not Bear (Dr. Warren strongly discouraged the use of pet names for the men in my life), had been my focus for a while, but I’d felt so much more strongly for Dr. Conti. He was so caring. Dr. Warren said I had confused my feelings for him, so desperate was I to be cared for and loved. Part of the conditions of my release were that my psychiatrist be a woman, and I was actually really glad of that. Dr. Warren was excellent. She was caring, but she was also quite blunt sometimes, forcing me to face the reality of my old thinking patterns.
I still had regular appointments with Dr. Warren. Once a month, we discussed my medication, my thoughts, and engaged in cognitive behavioral therapy. My mantras were an important part of my ongoing treatment, and I had lists in my phone to stop me spiraling into unwanted one-sided attractions. I did this regularly when I felt a mother–daughter bond with Dr. Warren.
“Erotomania puts you at risk of misidentifying the feelings of others,” Dr. Warren told me gently. “It’s characterized by feelings of excessive sexual desire, and in your case, delusions that the other party feels real love. When you feel these feelings Rose, you need to approach it in an objective way. Look at your lists and ask yourself the questions we drafted. You area person worthy of love; you just need to ensure that it is reciprocated,” she explained gently.
Ace. No, not Ace. Mr. Edison. Mr. Edison was so handsome. He was like a hound with his nose to the ground. He would help me. I could tell he cared. The moment the thought ran through my mind, I grabbed my phone in a panic to check my list. I’d called him Hound. I’d admitted attraction. I scanned the first two questions.
Has this person told me they have feelings?
No, he didn’t. He was professional and he was doing his job. He did offer me a very cheap rate ... No. No Rose!
Does this person have a personal relationship with me?
No, he doesn’t.
The first two questions on the list made it clear that I was misreading him. I was a job, an income. I wasn’t in love with him, and he wasn’t in love with me. He was just a kind professional who wanted to use his skills to help me. I took a deep breath, chanting another mantra.
I monitor my behavior for progress, not perfection.
