Page 41 of Into Pitch

“I keep thinking about something the guy said Plague said to him,” I admit. “That pain is just data, if you know how to read it.”

Alex’s head cocks. “That’s an interesting way to put it.”

Too interesting. I miss it in the moment, miss the way his fingers curl slightly against the arm of his chair. Miss the fractional pause before he continues, because I’m too busy sorting through the mess.

“He framed it like he was studying us. Like we were just… puzzles.” I murmur.

“And how did that make you feel in the moment?” Alex probes softly.

“Seen,” I say without thinking.

The words hang between us, and Alex doesn’t seem the least bit surprised by that reply.

“Being seen can feel intoxicating, especially when you’ve spent a lifetime being overlooked.” He agrees.

“I just… keep wondering how close I came to something going really wrong. If I’d said the wrong thing or reacted differently.”

“You’re alive, that’s what matters.” Alex counters and my brows furrow.

“But people have clearly died by Plague’s hand. Have been tortured.”

“There are places in the world where danger is curated. Where consent is complicated. Pitch clearly seems to be one of them.” He completely glosses over my statement. Which isn’t something he does often so it causes me pause.

“So, what? We’re just supposed to ignore that people like Plague exist out there. Completely unhinged?”

Alex’s mouth curves slightly, not a smile but something colder. “Unhinged implies lack of structure. From what you described, he’s highly structured.”

Why is this bastard smiling?

“What does that statement have to do with anything?” I counter, brows now permanently creased.

“It doesn’t, I suppose.” He shrugs and leans back into his seat.

I study him as I try to figure out how to take all of this or reply. How to form a sentence that doesn’t leave me more confused than before. Because why the hell isn’t he just as freaked out? Doesn’t he have an obligation to report something like murder?

“What do I do with that?”

“For now?” Alex hums, tapping his finger off his knee. “You sit with it. You don’t judge yourself, and you keep coming back.”

I open my mouth, but he cuts me off. “You’re not broken, Sadie. You’re adaptive, and adaptability can look dangerous when it’s misunderstood. To me, it seems like you learned something about yourself at Pitch.”

“I learned I was attracted to psychopaths,” I deadpan.

He snorts. “Or you’re attracted to intensity and focus. To being chosen.”

I shift uncomfortably and he pushes on. “That doesn’t mean you want to be harmed or that you deserve harm. I would like to add that.”

Oh, because that makes it so much better.

“Next week we’ll talk about boundaries. Where yours were crossed and where you chose to step forward.” He charges forward, bulldozing right past Pitch as if it were an easy conversational topic that didn’t deserve to be dissected.

“Okay,” I mumble.

He stands, signaling the end of our session per usual, and I rise slowly. Head still buzzing as I reach for the jacket I had yanked off when I first strolled in with a chip on my shoulder. One that has gotten smaller, but still rests there heavily.

I chew on the end of a Twizzler as I stare at the blank canvas before me. Pans still on the stove in the background from the dinner Imogen and I had shared. The scent of spaghetti filling the space around me alongside the faintest hint of her left over perfume remains.

Sighing, I push to my feet. Making quick work of packing the spaghetti into the fridge and spraying freshener, as if the smell is what’s stopping me from actually painting. Then I plop back down onto my worn, leather-topped stool and go back to ruminating in silence.