Emily
No more body parts have arrived, something I’m eternally grateful for, though Tom is still missing. I can only assume I’m correct and that he’s dead.
Stepping out of my office with a forced air of confidence, my heels click-clack on the hardwood beneath me like usual. The image I wear at work, like armour, is a far cry from the me I am inside now. My skirts are too tight, emphasising more of my hideous shape than I’d like. At least I don’t look like a stuffed sausage like I did on Friday in that too-small dress. This outfit, at least, has a modicum of breathability.
Eli’s face lights up when he sees me, and my breath stutters. He’s devastatingly attractive.
I worry my crush on him is something that should probably require therapy of its own.
This isn't attraction; it’s textbook countertransference. I'm projecting a need for strength onto a patient who presents as a 'Protector' archetype. If I can just categorise this feeling, I can kill it.
He’s a stalker, for Christ's sake.
Oh.
He’s a stalker.
Could he—?
My heart palpates as I consider whether he could be behindTom’s disappearance. It doesn’t track with what I know about him so far…
Eli follows me back into my office, taking a seat on the couch as I settle into the opposite armchair. I like to keep this room neutral and casual—not clinical like a doctor’s office.
“Doctor Morgan,” he greets, nodding his head at me, his hands resting on his thighs, clad in dark denim.
“Eli,” I reply, welcoming him, though I feel a little more on edge than usual.
“What are we discussing this week?” he asks, and I laugh, the sound a little forced.
“I think that’s supposed to be my question,” I reply.
His pearly white teeth bite down on his bottom lip in a bashful grin. “Apologies.”
I take the opening to steer the session. “If you’re open to suggestions, perhaps we could discuss the other women you stalk?”
His gaze narrows. “What about them?”
“Well, we’ve discussed Jenny. Why the others? What intrigued you about them?”
He shifts, crossing one ankle over his knee, leaning back on the sofa with one arm casually thrown over the backrest behind him.
There’s a gleam in his eyes—something I can’t quite understand. Like he’s in on something I’m not.
“They all looked like her,” he says, his eyes scanning my face for a reaction. “Blonde, skinny, a little broken.”
Why am I disappointed that I’m not his type?
I’m so far off blonde and skinny it’s not even funny. Though, I suppose I might qualify as broken.
“You never deviate from this pattern?” I clarify.
He hesitates for a fraction of a second before answering. “No. Always the same.”
“And you never make your presence known? That’s what you said, right?”
I’m pushing too hard. Bordering on unprofessional. But I can’t seem to stop myself.
He tilts his head slightly. “What’s going on? Is everything okay?”