“Thank you for moving my appointment, Dr. Locke.”
She gives me a neutral expression as she flips to a blank page in her notebook. “You made it worth my while. What brings you in today, Mr. Monroe? You seemed concerned during our call.”
I get right to the point. “Bolton is a suspect of interest in a very serious crime he hasn’t committed. I told him my legal team will handle it and not to worry. They don’t have any hard evidence against him, despite his lack of a credible alibi. He’s been researching the victims, their criminal records, and falling down Reddit holes instead of writing his book. He’s acted withdrawn and unlike himself since the police questioned him. His anxiety is getting worse, and I’m worried he’s obsessing. We need to make a plan of action to fix this.”
She takes a moment to jot down a few notes. Her writing is like chicken scratch, and I can’t read it upside down. I probablycouldn’t even read it right-side up. After a deep breath, she puts her pen down. “How do you know he’s doing these things?”
“Because I checked the security app,” I answer honestly.
Aside from being highly recommended in my social circle for her discretion, I picked Dr. Locke because she’s supportive of myunorthodoxmethods for treating my control issues. She sighed when I told her about the app a few months ago, then admitted it’s a great way for us to keep a mutual track of each other and improve our communication.
“And he still doesn’t know about the app,” she comments. “If he did, I would have heard about it in our solo therapy sessions by now.”
“What can we do about this?” I press.
“Nothing. Bolton is using a new strategy we’ve been working on, which seems to help him. Anxiety is often linked to control. In Bolton’s case, it stems from the unknown, which affects the stability he craves in his life. The best way to treat the unknown is to know. What you see as obsession is actually Bolton taking action and researching the topic so he feels more in control.”
I don’t want Bolton to know anything about this. I don’t want him researching anything having to do with these murders or stressing himself out.
“This strategy is negatively affecting him. He should write his book,” I argue.
“That statement is a great example of how you handle your own anxiety,” she says, ignoring what I said. “You eliminate the unknown through controlling as many aspects of your environment as possible. It’s a solid strategy for Callum Monroe the business mogul, but not so great for Callum Monroe the husband. If you try to control how Bolton processes his emotions, you’ll cause more harm than good. He needs to work through this himself.”
“You won't help me, will you?” I ask, despite knowing the answer.
“My job isn’t to cater to what you want—it’s helping you and Bolton emotionally heal past trauma and improve your marriage. You’ve both made so much progress since we started. Bolton’s anxiety is more manageable. Your communication with him has improved. You’ve both described your marriage as ‘thriving’. I recognize your concerns and will update you after our next session if I feel additional action is needed.”
The last thing I want Bolton to do is go back to the emotional headspace he was in before we started therapy. He may have given me a second chance after our chase at the cabin, but he kept me when I put in the emotional work, showing up for him in the ways I failed to do beforehand. As tempting as it is to squash this for my comfort, Dr. Locke is right. Bolton needs to work through this on his own.
“Okay,” I relent. As long as his condition doesn’t get worse, I can let him go his own way with this.
“Is there anything you’d like to talk about? I know this time of year is difficult for you because of your sis–”
“No,” I cut her off before she could finish her sentence, as if saying the word in its entirety would bring her back. “If you’ll excuse me, I have another meeting.”
I leave the room before she can respond. Sometimes it’s better to leave ghosts in the past, where they can’t harm you.
7
BOLTON
As soon as Cal leaves for work, I get ready and take one of the building’s cars to a shared work space I sometimes use. It’s a quiet place full of money-market finance bros who don’t read romance. They have no clue who I am, and I blend into the background there. It’s the perfect place to do my research. I’m researching again.
I take a spot all the way in the back, near a giant potted plant with large, flat leaves. I think it’s fake, but it always provides the extra coverage I need to concentrate here. After twenty minutes, I found nothing.
There has to be a deeper connection between the victims than a shared employer. Only two of the three worked at ViolaCorps at the same time, and in different departments. My concentration breaks when a group of loud men around my age in flashy suits come in to meet the guy sitting on the other side of the room.
“Yo K-Dawg!” the tallest one shouts before giving one of them the weird bro-hug thing some men do. I never got the point, because I enjoy my personal space, thank you very much. Unless it’s Cal, I don’t really like touching people, let alone hugging them.
They shatter the quiet, relaxing atmosphere as they talk over each other about a myriad of topics—golf, women they’ve seen, clubs they’ve been to, their fathers.These trust-fund losers always rely on their daddies to make it in the world. They wouldn’t know hard work if it dropped from the sky and hit them on the head.
I can hear my therapist, Dr. Locke, chastising me.
Bolton, everyone has some type of daddy issue. Some people rise above their daddy issues by doing emotional work; others let their daddy issues control them.
Wait…fathers. Maybe the victims are connected through their fathers. These rich guys are part of the upper echelon of elitism that hinges on generational wealth. The victims shouldn’t be any different. Cal may not be as awful as the guys ruining the workspace right now, but even he admitted to benefitting from his father’s social connections from time to time. He always frames it as a necessary evil—a resource he uses as a last resort.
The manager of the space finally makes his way over and ushers them into a boardroom on the other end of the floor. Their voices fade into the background, and I type like a madman.
