I hated that Patel was the one sitting there afterward, helping him try to piece himself back together while I paced the hallway like a caged animal.
And I hated—most of all—that I couldn’t stop it.
When my own battery of assessments and screenings began, I welcomed them, eager to urge the process on and do some damage control.
I gave them concern without obsession, attachment without possession.
I let them think I was shaken.
I let them think I was guilty of nothing more than caring too much.
Inside, I was confident about my performance, but not cocky—never cocky. I’d been performing for my entire career, so I was used to it, but I stayed cautious, never letting my guard down. I needed to be patient, say all the right things, keep my tone even, and make my answers clean but nottooclean to be suspicious.
They were looking for a monster.
I gave them a man who loved a victim and respected the rules. I was ashamed that I couldn’t keep my personal feelings separate from my work. I was worried about the potential consequences to Elior’s mental state. I was adamant that I’d kept the relationship strictly non-sexual.
I was whatever they wanted me to be.
And all the while, Elior waited.
Drugged. Questioned. Stripped of his place in the world piece by piece. Probably thinking that everything was all his fault.
That was the part that kept me awake at night—the thought of Elior lying there, alone, believing that loving me was another sin he’d need to atone for.
They could debate my access all they wanted.
In the end, they’d realize the truth.
Taking me away from him wouldn’t make him better, onlyworse.
The days began to blur together after a while.
Meetings. Hallways. Heated debates behind closed doors I wasn’t allowed into. Every hour stretched thin with waiting, with rehearsing answers in my head, with imagining worst-case scenarios, and then forcing myself to work through them.
And when they finally called me in, it wasn’t to slap cuffs around my wrists and haul me off to the nearest detention center. No.
They wanted mycooperation.
I was seated at the end of a long table, filled with far too many people from Behavioral, Internal Affairs, and legal. Faces carefully neutral, voices calm in the way people get when they’re trying very hard not to provoke something volatile.
They talked about trauma bonds and transference, about the dangers of rapid attachment following prolonged abuse. They talked about power imbalances and dependency, about how survivors sometimes confuse safety and ownership.
They asked if I could step back.
“Just temporarily. Just until this is all figured out.”
“That depends on what you mean by step back,” I’d answered. “If you mean removing me entirely, I think that would be clinically irresponsible. If you mean restructuring contact in a way that supports his autonomy while maintaining a consistent support figure, I’m open to that.”
They seemed to like that answer. They liked me being reasonable.
Within a few hours, I had an answer.
Supervised contact could continue, with a slight extension of visit time. No physical intimacy beyond what could be justified as grounding. No exclusive presence during interviews. Atransition plan for eventual discharge that involved a third party—social services, placement options, and contingencies.
I agreed, only because agreeing kept me in the room.
When I finally went back to Elior’s floor afterwards, it was past midnight. The lights were dimmed, the hall quiet except for the low murmur of machines and distant footsteps.
