I rise from the stiff plastic waiting room chair, brushing past a woman with wild red hair and a heavily pregnant belly as she exits Emily’s office. I barely register her—just another ghost passing through.
I follow Emily inside. Same room. Same worn blue leather sofa. I lower myself into it, like I do every week. This is session four. Four weeks of pretending I care about healing, when really, I’m just here forher.
Not that she knows the half of it.
She doesn’t know I’ve been in her flat.
Doesn’t know I’ve watched her sleep.
“How are you today?” she asks, crossing one leg over theother, her blouse shifting just enough to hint at the shape beneath. She leans forward, eyes scanning mine like she’s trying to see inside my scarred mind.
“Good, thank you,” I say, voice smooth. I compare the Emily in front of me to the version I saw last night—messy-haired, braless, half-asleep in bed.
Today she’s polished to perfection. Her dark hair sleek and straight, her blouse hugging her breasts—breasts that I know are bound in one of those awful full-coverage bras she wears like armour. Her pencil skirt clings to hips that haunt me.
“Any compulsions this week, Eli?” she asks, wetting her bottom lip with her tongue.
I shake my head, keeping my expression innocent. “No. I actually feel like these sessions are helping me keep it in check.”
Liar.
She beams. That smile is devastating. It nearly buckles me.
“That’s great. How about we talk more about Jenny today?”
And just like that, the warmth drains out of me.
Jenny.
I don’t want to talk about Jenny.
But I can’t let her go either.
Even while I’m drowning in Emily, some part of me still needs to know what happened. Why Jenny vanished. Why no one can find her. Why I can’t.
My mouth tightens. “Do we have to?”
Emily laughs—soft, musical, brutal. The sound knocks the air from my lungs.
“You don’t have to talk about anything you don’t want to,” she says gently. “These sessions are for you.” She tilts her head, studying me. “But I do think it might help.”
Internally, I roll my eyes. But I indulge her. I always do.
“What do you want to know?”
She smiles again. “Why do you think she was someone you became fixated on? Why her?”
I remember the exact moment I first saw Jenny Taylor.
The memory lives in my bones. Still warm. Still sharp.
My sleeves are tugged down over my arms, fists clenched tight in the fabric. I’m terrified someone might see. Might know.
Tears sting at the backs of my eyes as I run, my rucksackthudding against my spine with every footfall. Behind me, my father’s voice still rings out—dripping with rage, thick with spit.
“Don’t you dare come back here, boy! You’re a fucking disappointment!”
I swallow the burn in my throat. Swallow the truth of it.