Yes, there are signs Soren is a psychopath, but it’s all so smooth, subtle, and wrapped in charm that one might never notice.
More questions pop up in my mind, like his wife and kids. It’s a sore subject, and I’m reluctant to poke a polar bear, but he hinted at something in our therapy meeting. That the marriage dissolved because of him. Because his wife doesn’t like who he is.
“We need to discuss looking like a couple,” he finally says, halting all my thoughts. I look around the empty house.
“Look like a couple forwho?” I imagine dates and hand-holding. Maybe more of Soren’s passionate kissing. Will he tell me to move into his bedroom downstairs? I eye the open door. Would he wrap his arms around my waist and drag me closer in bed, telling me that doesn’t look convincing. That we need to be close, that we need to do more.People can tell, after all, when you’ve been intimate.
They can’t, not really. But they’d certainly be able to tell we aren’t giddy, horny newlyweds.
Soren gets on his knees next to my chair and reaches for my hand. He retrieves a small, red velvet box from his pocket. It’s a ring—a white gold band. There’s an engraved swirling pattern that looks like curling clouds.
Quickly, he puts it on my right hand. He stares at it a moment, rubbing small circles above the ring. His fingers are warm.
“I was born in Norway,” he says. “The right hand is customary there.” I notice he’s wearing a matching white gold band already.
“Oh.” I eye him down on his knee, then look back at the ring on my finger. It’s sinking in that I actually married him. Even if it’s a fake marriage, it’s legal.
“Will you wear it on the right?” His thumb rubs my finger and then slides across the ring, treating it as something precious. It feels like he’s actually proposing—asking if we can make it real.
I pull my hand out of his. That’snotwhat this is.
“I don’t mind,” I say. He beams. I look in awe at his happiness. Is it real? Or is this all just clever acting meant to make me feel attached to him? I want to know. I want to know the reasons for all his choices.
Before I can ask him anything, he’s already in the living room, heading towards the door.
“I’m going out,” he says.
There’s been a testing period over the last few days. Where I was waiting for him to kill me, and he was waiting for me to flee. But neither of us has. And now we have rings. This is really happening. I’ve agreed to live with a killer. I sigh, disappointed in myself. But that doesn’t motivate me to change my mind. This is an opportunity no psychologist has had.
“I’d like to interview you tonight.” I follow him, watching as he pulls a coat on.
“I’m busy all night.”
“With work?” I ask.
“No, Sophie. Not with work.” He chuckles. “I was hoping to spend a little time with my hobby.” I suck in a gasp.
“You plan to kill again?”
He twists around to face me with a broad smile.
“I am.” The gall of him is staggering. The ease and playfulness with which he admits to murder are fascinating. I’m glued to the floor, watching him pull his boots on.
Soren picks up a gym bag from the ground and opens the front door. It hits me that someone is about to die.
“Don’t wait up.” He winks. The door closes. I pace, biting my nails. The ring on my finger feels heavy and distracting, weighing me down to reality. I stare at the engraved band and consider going back up to my room and locking myself in. Doom scrolling for hours.
The reality of what I’vefullyagreed to is sinking in. He’s not just a murderer. Soren Erikson is a serial killer in the making. One I half-created. Fuck me, I’m a serial killer’s therapist.
I rush to the door, shove my feet into winter boots, and grab my coat. When I barrel out onto the wooden porch, I silently pray he hasn’t left yet.
“Soren!” I yell. It’s dark, and his truck is black, but I see the red backup lights slowly moving further away as he takes his time in case of ice. I can’t let him leave without me. The idea of sitting on the couch while he’s murdering someone makes me feel anxious. I can’t do it. Am I going to stop him, though? I don’t know.
“Shit.” I rush down the steps with a vengeance, my boots rattling the wood as I try to move as fast as possible. A moment later, I spill onto the driveway and race for him. He’s nearly on the road by the time I rip open the passenger side door.
Soren stares at me in surprise as I throw myself in the car. All I can do is suck in lungfuls of air as I catch my breath. What am I doing? I have no idea.
He unbuckles his seatbelt, leans over me, and shuts my door. The heat of his body is inches from mine.
