I close the door behind them, then return to my chair. I don’t pick up my tablet yet.
“We have fifty minutes together,” I say. “I’ll let you know when we’re approaching the end of our time. Today is about getting acquainted—understanding how you work together, what your goals are for these sessions. There’s no pressure to dive deep into anything that feels too personal right away.”
I pause, letting that settle.
“Any questions before we start?”
Neither speaks, so I continue.
“All right then.”
I wait.
Vicente is the first to shift.
“So,” he says, flashing just enough of a smile to soften the tension he knows is there. “How does this work? We lie down, tell you our dreams, and you tell us we’re both repressing our feelings about our mothers?”
I let the corner of my mouth lift, barely. “Only if you want to talk about your mothers.”
“I don’t,” Arturo says, his voice low and final.
Vicente tilts his head, studying me. Testing.
“I assume we’re being recorded,” he says.
“Yes,” I answer. “As outlined in the consent form.”
The form says our sessions may be recorded and may be reviewed for operational continuity. Passive phrasing. Intentional. It doesn’t mention that the feed goes straight to Langley. It doesn’t say I memorized the CIA’s list of suggested prompts and shredded the hard copy.
It also doesn’t say I won’t use them. Just that I’ll wait until they give me something real.
“No mirrors,” he notes, glancing around. “No two-way glass.”
“No need.”
Arturo exhales through his nose. Not quite a laugh.
“I’m not here to trap either of you,” I say. “You’ve both agreed to these sessions. I’m not law enforcement. I’m not the CIA. I’m not your enemy.”
“Who are you then?” Vicente asks. Less playful now. Still polite.
“I’m someone who listens,” I say. “And someone who understands what power does to a relationship.”
Both men look at me now, more attentive than skeptical.
Good. We can work with attention.
“I’m not going to ask you to define your relationship,” I say. “Not yet.”
Vicente leans back just slightly, his expression unreadable. Arturo doesn’t move at all.
“What I would like is to talk about the shape of your days,” I continue. “What structure looks like now. Who wakes up first. Who chooses dinner. Who gets quiet when they’re angry.”
“Your file said therapist, not profiler,” Vicente says.
“My license says both.”
That earns me a flicker of a smile. I don’t return it.
