"I'm sorry, Dr. Reeves, but the payment didn't go through. Again."
I stared at my phone screen, watching Mr. Chen's name flash as his voice crackled through the speaker. The fluorescent light above my desk buzzed like an angry wasp, and I wanted to smash it. Or cry. Maybe both.
"Mr. Chen, I just need two more weeks," I said, and I hated how small my voice sounded. How desperate. "I have several new clients starting next month, and I can pay you everything I owe—"
"You said that last month, Nina. And the month before that." He sighed, and I could picture him in his pristine office, looking at my file like it was something dirty. "I like you. I do. But I run a business. You're two months behind. That's thirty-four hundred dollars. If I don't have payment by Friday, I have to start eviction proceedings. I don't have a choice."
The line went dead.
I dropped my phone onto the desk like it had burned me and pressed my palms against my eyes until I saw stars. Thirty-two years old. A PhD in clinical psychology from a decent state school. Specializing in criminal rehabilitation because I actually believed people could change, could be better than their worst moments.
And I couldn't even pay my rent.
My phone buzzed again. Mom. Third call today. I considered ignoring it, but guilt was a hook in my chest, sharp and familiar.
"Mom, I really can't talk right now—"
"Nina, please." Her voice cracked, and my stomach dropped. "The hospital called again. They said your father needs the surgery within two weeks or they can't guarantee..." She trailed off, but I heard what she didn't say. Can't guarantee he'll make it through the year. "They're saying it's twelve thousand dollars. Insurance won't cover it. Pre-existing condition, they said."
I closed my eyes. Twelve thousand dollars. I had two hundred forty-seven dollars in my checking account. My credit cards were maxed out. My car had died yesterday, and I'd taken three buses to get to work this morning.
"I know you don't have it, sweetheart," Mom continued, her voice thick. "I just needed to hear your voice. I'm so scared."
"I'll figure something out," I promised, and the lie tasted like ash. "I always do."
After she hung up, I opened my laptop and stared at my bank account like maybe the numbers would change if I looked hard enough.
Checking Account: $247.83
OVERDRAFT WARNING
Student Loans: Payment Failed - $1,250.00
One hundred forty thousand dollars in student debt. And for what? To make a hundred fifty per session while criminals walked free with better lawyers than their victims could ever afford?
The office phone rang, shrill and unexpected. I almost let it go to voicemail.
"Dr. Nina Reeves."
"Dr. Reeves, this is Janet Kowalski from the District Court Liaison Office." Her voice was rushed, frantic. "I apologize for calling so late, but I have an urgent situation and you're my last hope."
I glanced at the clock. Eleven-fifteen PM. "What kind of situation?"
"Court-mandated therapy case. High-profile defendant. Fifty sessions required, starting tomorrow morning. I know it's incredibly last minute, but we've had five therapists refuse already, and the judge is furious. Are you available?"
Fifty sessions. My pulse kicked up. "What's the rate?"
"Four hundred fifty per session."
I did the math instantly. Four-fifty times fifty. Twenty-two thousand, five hundred dollars. Enough to save my apartment. Pay for Dad's surgery. Breathe for the first time in months.
"What's the case?" I asked, trying to sound professional instead of desperate.
"Assault. The defendant is Zachary Hale. I'm sure you've seen the news. Tech billionaire, thirty-five, beat a man nearly to death at a charity gala. The judge gave him a choice: fifty therapy sessions or eighteen months in prison. He chose therapy."
My mouth went dry. I'd seen the coverage. Daniel Morrison hospitalized for weeks. Facial reconstruction. The photos had been everywhere, brutal and stomach-turning.
"Why would he agree to therapy if he's a..." I paused, searching for the right word.
"Psychopath?" Janet supplied. "Because prison would be inconvenient for his business operations. His exact words, according to his lawyer. Dr. Reeves, I need someone who specializes in criminal psychology and won't be intimidated by money or power. You're literally my last option. Please."
I thought about my father in a hospital bed. The eviction notice. The three buses I'd have to take home.
"I'll need his file tonight," I said. "And payment upfront for the first ten sessions."
"Done. Emailing the file now. Session is tomorrow at 9 AM. Thank you, Dr. Reeves. You have no idea what this means."
She hung up before I could change my mind.
My email pinged immediately. The subject line read: HALE, ZACHARY - CONFIDENTIAL - 127 PAGES.
I opened the first document with hands that wouldn't stop shaking.
Psychiatric Evaluation
Subject: Zachary Hale, Male, Age 35
Diagnosis: Antisocial Personality Disorder with Psychopathic Features
IQ: 156 (99.9th percentile)
Summary: Subject demonstrates textbook psychopathic traits including lack of empathy, absence of remorse, superficial charm, and manipulative behavior. Subject is highly intelligent and extremely dangerous when threatened. No capacity for genuine emotional attachment. Prognosis for rehabilitation: Poor to None.
Recommendation: Extreme caution advised.
I clicked to the crime scene photos and immediately wished I hadn't.
Blood. So much blood. Daniel Morrison's face was unrecognizable. Shattered orbital bones. Broken jaw. Nose crushed. The report said Zachary had done this with his bare hands. In a ballroom. Wearing a tuxedo. While three hundred people watched.
One witness statement made my skin crawl:
"Mr. Hale walked up to Mr. Morrison during cocktails. They spoke briefly. Then Mr. Hale grabbed him by the throat and just started hitting him. But it wasn't rage. It was methodical. Controlled. Like he was completing a task. When security pulled him off, Mr. Hale straightened his tie and said, 'He won't make that mistake again.' No anger. No emotion. Nothing."
I read for hours, my coffee going cold, my eyes burning. Zachary Hale had been diagnosed at fifteen after killing the family dog "to see what it felt like." He'd spent twenty years learning to fake normal human emotions without actually experiencing them.
One quote stopped me cold:
Interviewer: "Do you feel remorse for what you did to Mr. Morrison?"
Subject: "No. I understand I'm supposed to say yes, that I'm supposed to feel guilty. But I don't. I can't. That emotion doesn't exist in my neurological structure. I've learned to simulate feelings to function in society, but I don't actually experience them. I am what I am. The question is whether society can accept that, or whether I should keep pretending."
"What have I gotten myself into?" I whispered to my empty office.
My computer chimed. New email. Sent at 4:23 AM.
From: Zachary Hale
To: Dr. Nina Reeves
Subject: Tomorrow
I clicked it open, my heart hammering.
Dr. Reeves,
I'm looking forward to meeting you. I've read all your published work. Your dissertation on criminal rehabilitation was particularly insightful, though I disagree with your fundamental premise about human capacity for change. Your methodology was sound, but your optimism seems rooted in hope rather than evidence.
I think we'll have fascinating conversations.
See you at 9 AM. Don't be late. I value punctuality.
Zachary Hale
I stared at the screen, my chest tight.
He'd already contacted me. Already researched me. Already read my dissertation, an obscure academic paper from seven years ago that even my committee had barely skimmed.
This was a boundary violation before we'd even met.
I should report this. Refuse the case. Protect myself.
But twenty-two thousand dollars.
Dad's surgery.
My apartment.
My survival.
I closed my laptop and dropped my head into my hands.
Every instinct screamed that Zachary Hale was dangerous. That this would destroy me.
But I couldn't afford to listen.
And buried beneath the terror, something else stirred. Something I didn't want to acknowledge.
Someone had read my work. Understood it. Valued my intelligence enough to mention it.
I was drowning, and a psychopath had just thrown me a rope.
I just didn't know yet that the rope was a noose.