Page 42 of Letters From A Stalker

“Of course she wouldn't.”

My jaw tightens because the certainty in Mara's voice pisses me off precisely because she's right.

Julia wanted the safety of her own house, her own silence where no one was watching her while she tried to put herself back together. I understood that when she said it. I understand it now. It still doesn't make letting her walk out feel any fucking better.

I glance at my watch. “Do I have anyone else today?”

“No. She was your last one.”

The relief is immediate.

“Anything that can't wait until morning?”

“No.”

I nod once and turn toward my office before Mara can read more into the question than I'm willing to explain.

“Kai.”

I stop but don't turn around.

“Be smart,” Her voice is quieter this time.

A humorless breath leaves me. “Always am.”

“That's not what I meant.”

No. It isn't.

I close my office door behind me and head toward the narrow closet beside the bathroom where I keep spare clothes for days I ride into work. The black suit jacket comes off first, followed by the vest and shirt, each piece folded with considerably less care than it deserves and my OCD will have to fucking deal with it. I pulled on black jeans and the heavy black hoodie shoved onto the shelf above my helmet. I'm halfway through tying my sneakers when I finally stop pretending I haven't already decided what I'm doing.

I'm going after her. Not to interfere. Not to cross any fucking line that can't be uncrossed. I'm just making sure she gets home safely. That's it. A patient left my office after a significant dissociative episode, insisted on driving herself home and has no immediate support waiting for her. Being alone after ripping open half her childhood was not necessarily a high risk but driving in such a state? I wasn’t so sure.

She'll be fine.

Of course she will, but I’m starting to hate that fucking word. I grab my helmet with more force than necessary, and leave the office. Mara looks up the moment I step back into reception, and her eyes move from the hoodie to the helmet hanging from my fingers before returning to my face.

There is something in her expression that I can’t quite read, but I don’t have the time to decipher what that is.

“Going for a ride?”

“Yes.”

“Right now.” It doesn’t sound like a question, more like a suggestion I reconsider my choice.

Not. Fucking. Happening.

“That's usually how going for a ride works.”

Her mouth flattens into a thin line and I already know I’ll have to apologise for that. Later, though. Instead, I reach for the door.

“That's what I'm afraid of,” she says.

My hand stills against the handle. For a second I consider telling her she's reading too much into it. She knows I ride when I need to clear my head and have done exactly that hundreds of times before. But I also know that the lie wouldn't survive her face, so I don't bother.

“I'll see you tomorrow.”

“Kai.”