I nod, making another note. Not for the Agency—they have everything they need from the recording. This is for me. For the part of me that still believes in the possibility of repair.
“How long did it take?” I continue. “To get here.”
“We’re still getting here,” Vicente says. “Every day.”
By the time I check the clock, fifty-three minutes have passed. The session has run long, but I don’t regret it. This—this honesty, this careful excavation of intimacy—this is why I’m here.
Not just for the Agency. For me. To remember what healing looks like when people commit to it.
“Next week,” I say, as they rise.
Vicente offers a small nod. “We’ll be here.”
Arturo stands more slowly, but his expression is lighter than when they arrived. “Same time?”
“Same time,” I confirm.
They move toward the door with the same practiced choreography they entered with, but something has shifted. The space between them feels softer somehow. More permeable.
Vicente pauses at the threshold. “Dr. Palmer?”
I look up from my notes.
“Thank you,” he says simply. “For seeing us as we are.”
I start to nod but stop. “I appreciate the level of willingness you both showed to share today, all things considered.” I cock my head sideways as if toward one of the invisible cameras.
Arturo’s mouth curves into the barest hint of a smile. “The truth is the only thing we own that can’t be taken from us anymore, Dr. Palmer. Everything else—money, property, freedom—is negotiable.”
Vicente nods, his gaze steady. “In our previous lives, every word was calculated. Every truth was a liability. Now?” He spreads his hands. “Our transparency is our armor. The moment you have nothing to hide is the moment you become truly untouchable.”
I watch them leave, their footsteps fading as the door closes behind them. They’re right, of course. There’s a certain invulnerability that comes with radical honesty. But I wonder what truths they’re still keeping—not from the Agency, not from me, but from each other. Some wounds heal too perfectly, leaving no visible scar but changing everything beneath the surface.
After they leave, I sit in the silence for a long moment. The room still holds traces of their presence—the faint scent of Arturo’s cologne, the impression left by their weight on the sofa cushions. But more than that, it holds the echo of something real. Something that might actually heal.
I walk to the door and step into the reception area in the foyer. Darius is at his desk, fingers dancing over his fidget cube while he reviews intake schedules on his monitor.
“How’d it go?” he asks, not looking up.
“Better than expected.” I lean against the doorframe. “What’s my next appointment?”
He glances at his screen. “Petrov evaluation at one-thirty. Should be interesting.”
“Any word on what specifically they want assessed?”
“Psychological fitness for ongoing asset integration. Standard trauma-informed eval to determine optimal handling protocols.” He finally looks up, dark eyes serious. “She’s been through some serious shit, from what I understand. They want to make sure she won’t crack under pressure.”
I nod. Standard enough. “How long do I have?”
“Hour and a half. Want me to grab you lunch? There’s a decent poke place around the corner, or I can do a coffee run if you just need fuel.”
“Poke sounds good, actually. Spicy tuna if they have it.” I realize I haven’t eaten since the piece of toast Callie forced on me this morning. “And buzz me when she arrives?”
“You got it.”
I retreat to my office and close the door. Record the mandatory session notes on autopilot—clinical language, professional observations, none of what actually mattered. When I’m done, I set the phone aside.
Darius knocks and enters with a takeout container, setting it on my desk with a bottle of sparkling water. “Spicy tuna with extra avocado.”
