“So, if you don’t mind my asking, what brings you back here, Doc?” he inquires further.
“Ahem. Respectfully, Mr. Dillon, I’d like to keep the focus on you if that’s alright,” I respond crisply, hoping that I’m not coming off as rude or dismissive. It was normal for new patients to feel nervous or curious and ask me questions. They hadn’t gotten the hang of therapy yet. It was understandable, and okay, really.
He is silent for a long moment, allowing me to say more if I wish to. I hold his gaze and feel a zing of exhilaration run down my spine. His eyes were really something. Backtracking my words, I decide to be honest and answer him.
“The death of my father, actually,” I reply.
His gaze softens as his eyes comb over my face and up over my hair. He looks as though he is trying to see into my head. The sensation isn’t uncomfortable so much as it is striking. Feeling both new and familiar at the same time. Horrifyingly, I feel the burning prick of tears threaten at the corner of my eyes. I shift in my chair and let my gaze fall to the floor for a moment while I try to regain control.
“You were right, Doc. I shouldn’t have asked. I apologize. I’m so sorry for your loss.”
My eyes meet his, and his gaze is soft and tender. He offers me another pleasant little grin. This time, in addition to the fucking dimples, I notice a slight lopsidedness to his smile. It's endearing as all hell. A hot twinge of something clenches low in my belly.
Nodding my head, I say, “Completely fine. Not to worry.”
He relaxes onto the sofa once again, accepting my words, and smiling still. He was certainly charming, I’d give him that. But luckily, I had ample experience in talking with and treating charming men. All the best murderers were indelibly charming, after all.
However, there was nothing particularly macabre in his demeanor or affect. To the contrary, there was a comforting kindof warmth behind his blue eyes. And something familiar in his easy way of being. Like we have known each other for longer than just one session.
We talk easily, and time passes quickly. He even makes me laugh out loud a couple of times. If I wasn’t completely unhinged before, I definitely am now.
I’m attracted to a patient. Christ.
The exact second that the clock hits the fifty-minute mark, I stand. My movement is abrupt, and my notepad and pen fall from my lap to the floor. Mortified, I groan internally.What is wrong with me?
But before I can lean down to collect them, I notice that Joseph has left the sofa and is bent down on one knee, his long arms extended to pick up my items for me. Slowly, his eyes trail up my body. And my body reacts as though it’s his hands on me, rather than his eyes. His hot gaze crawls up my ankles, my thighs, my torso, my chest, and lands upon my face. With a roguish grin spreading across his devilishly handsome face, he looks up from where he is kneeling before me.
“Well damn, Doc, if you wanted me on my knees, all you had to do was ask.”
My face burns with heat. And suddenly it all floods back to me. An image of his younger face as a teenager, no more than sixteen or seventeen years old, peering out at me from the trees. Smiling that same handsome smile.Making my heart race in my chest.
And that’s when it strikes me;I know this man.
And unequivocally, without a doubt, his name was NOT Joseph Dillon.
With great effort, I swallow down the response I would normally give to a client after a comment like that—something along the lines of “that is a highly inappropriate joke, Mr. Dillon.” I give him a gracious smile and a polite chuckle instead.Taking my blank notepad and pen from him, our hands brush together. A tangible jolt of electricity stems from the place where my slender fingers touch his own. My eyes fly up and meet his. Blinking rapidly, I thank him for his time and usher him out while confirming the time for next week’s appointment.
I watch him walk out of my office and stride through the common waiting room, close my door and sag against it. My heart is hammering in my chest, like some wild bird thrashing its wings against the bars of a cage.
Zayn.That was Zayn Bronwin, I was sure of it. I had felt the familiarity of his presence, and I heard it in the cadence of his voice. I think from the moment he entered my office, I had sensed it somewhere in my head or heart. But him peering up at me cheekily like that solidified it.It was Zayn.
The Bronwin family were the only ones that lived anywhere remotely close to Pearson House. They had kept a small residence for most of my childhood and into my teen years that was technically on Pearson House property. The last back acre encapsulated Bonn’s Ruins, which were long since abandoned, and the Bronwin family home, which was a small two-bedroom brick cottage that nestled up against the northwest edge of the woods.
Mr. Bronwin had been the groundskeeper for Pearson House, and Mrs. Bronwin was the housekeeper during the nine months of the year we were back at home in northern California. There was a beautiful, lush garden encircled by a low wrought-iron fence that Mrs. Bronwin had cultivated. In the summer months, the scent of roses and jasmine would waft along the pathway that connected the two properties. A small potting shed was situated close by, just a few hundred yards from the Ruins.
But I remember him: Zayn.
I remember him watching me from those woods. Peering at me from between the thickets of rain-drenched trees. Hisdark hair was longer back then, unkempt and falling onto his forehead. He had watched me in stolen moments when I escaped the confines of the house to go read or daydream in the woods or explore the ruins. After so many years, I had come to think of him as my secret guardian in the woods.
So why was he here now? Pretending to be someone else?He clearly knew why I was back in Greenwood. I am sure that he had known about my father’s death before he asked.His suicide was splashed all over the local news. At least until I had paid Dad’s lawyers to quiet it all down.
What game was Zayn playing? And more importantly, how do I keep him from winning?
____________________
I replay our session in my head over and over during the drive home. My hands seem to know the twists and turns of the roads a little better now as they move on the steering wheel. I opt to keep it quiet and forgo putting on any music so I can just be with my thoughts.
Other than lying about who he actually was, Zayn seemed to be fairly honest and forthcoming. His answers came off as authentic and it seemed like he genuinely enjoyed talking with me.
