I knocked.
"Come in."
The office was smaller than I'd expected. Warm—books everywhere, a leather couch I immediately decided I wouldn't lie on, two armchairs by a window. Late afternoon light cast everything in soft gold. And there, rising from one of the armchairs, was she.
Not what I'd expected. Early thirties, dark hair pulled back with a few strands escaping to frame a face that was striking rather than pretty. High cheekbones. A full mouth that looked like it had forgotten how to smile. And eyes—the color of whiskey, sharp and assessing, taking me apart in a heartbeat.
"Mr. Zelenov?" My fake name, spoken in a voice that was cool and utterly unimpressed. "I'm Dr. Walsh."
I summoned my best smile—the one that had gotten me out of more trouble than I could count. "That's me. Sorry about the appointment confusion. I wasn't sure I was coming."
"But you came anyway."
"I was in the neighborhood."
"Were you."
It wasn't a question. She studied me, no reaction to the smile, no softening. Most women responded to me—not with anything so crude as swooning, but with a shift, an awareness. Dr. Walsh looked at me like I was a puzzle she wasn't sure was worth solving.
"Please." She gestured to the empty armchair. "Sit."
She settled into her chair with the ease of someone who'd done this a thousand times. I took the seat across from her, suddenly aware of how exposed I felt. No desk between us. No barrier.
"So, Mr. Zelenov." She clicked a pen. "You mentioned insomnia when you booked."
"Did I?"
"You also mentioned you'd 'tried everything' and were 'running out of options.'"
I didn't remember writing that. But at 3 AM, Rodion did things that daylight Rodion regretted.
"It's not that serious," I said. "Trouble sleeping sometimes. Work stress."
"What kind of work?"
"Investments. Development. Boring corporate things."
"And these boring corporate things keep you up at night?"
"Doesn't everyone's job?"
She didn't answer. Just watched me with those whiskey-colored eyes, waiting. The silence stretched, and I realized she was doing it on purpose—letting the quiet pressure me into filling it. I'd used the same technique myself. Funny how different it felt from this side.
"Fine," I said. "I haven't slept properly in months. Maybe longer. Two hours a night. Three if I'm lucky. I lie there, and my brain won't shut off."
"Have you seen a physician?"
"Several. Pills don't work, or they work too well, and I'm useless the next day."
"And before this started—did you sleep normally?"
I opened my mouth to say yes. Stopped. "I don't know. I don't remember the last time I felt rested."
"What happened recently that made it worse?"
I’ve killed so many men that I don't remember what it's like to feel. I realized I've been performing the same role so long I don't know who I am without it.
"Work," I said. "Family stress. The usual."
