Page 52 of Letters From A Stalker

The voice returns with irritating persistence.

Tell her someone noticed.

Tell her somebody is watching.

My fingers tighten around the pen lying between them. There is a version of this where I throw the idea away. There is another version where I stop riding past her house, return exclusively to the role I am qualified to occupy in her life and accept the fact that wanting something does not entitle me to reach for it. That version of me has been making excellent points all week. He is also losing.

I lean back in my chair and stare at the window. A knock against my door interrupts whatever diagnosis I’m about to assign myself, and Mara appears with her tablet tucked against her chest, closing the door behind her. I look at her. Mara smiles sweetly which makes me uneasy because she does that only on special occasions. Or when she’s about to call me out on my bullshit.

“Your cancellation has been filled,” her tone doesn’t hint at that, though. “Mrs. Feldman called back and can come at four instead.”

“Fine.” Mine, on the other hand, is careful.

Her eyes travel over me for a moment, taking in the suit, vest and tie before returning to my face.

“What?”

“Nothing. It’s just nice to see you dressed like a psychiatrist again.”

I stare at her. She smiles sweetly. Again.

“And Julia Hayes is here.”

Everything inside me sharpens and her eyes narrow slightly. This was her tactic all along but I keep my expression neutral.

“You’re looking at me, why?”

“I often do that when speaking to people.”

“Mara.”

“Kai.”

I wait. She gives me another second of that infuriatingly perceptive stare before apparently deciding to leave, pressing me further for another day.

“She’s early. About ten minutes. I told her she can wait.”

“Thank you.”

Mara starts to leave, then pauses. “You okay to continue?”

It’s a loaded fucking question and we both know it.

“I’m fine.” The irony of picking those exact words doesn’t escape me.

Her mouth twitches. “Interesting choice of words.”

“Get out.”

She laughs as she disappears behind the door. I remove my glasses and press my thumb and forefinger briefly against my eyes.

By the time Julia steps into my office seven minutes later, I’ve mentally put the letter somewhere where I can pretend it isn’t waiting for me. At least for the next fifty minutes.

She looks different from the woman who left here last week. Not physically, although today her hair is loose around her shoulders in soft waves, and she’s wearing black trousers with a cream blouse tucked neatly into the waist. The difference is in the way she enters the room. Her attention is present. Her eyes move over me, the chairs and the table. There’s no delay, no fraction of a second where I wonder whether she’s actually seeing any of it and that settles relief letter somewhere where I can pretend stop it.

“Good afternoon, Julia.”

“Hi.”