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PROLOGUE
Rebekah Holden satpoised in her leather chair, a fortress of professionalism amid the chaos thatsometimes walked through her door. Her office was a carefully curated space oftranquility, walls adorned with diplomas and licenses, plush blue armchairsinviting open conversation, and a large window that bathed the room in naturallight.
But today, theserenity was strained. Across from her, in one of her welcoming chairs, theyoung man's presence made for an alarming contrast to the calm decor. His eyeswere darting, his fingers tapping an erratic rhythm on the armrest. He was adiscordant note in the symphony of her usually harmonious office.
‘Daniel, is it?’Rebekah asked, her voice a lighthouse beam cutting through fog.
‘Yes,’ the boy said.‘Daniel is fine.’ His gaze flitted to the potted fern in the corner beforesnapping back to some invisible point just above Rebekah's head. The word fineseemed to suggest that this young gentleman wasn’t about to reveal everythingin one fell swoop.
‘Well, thank you forcoming. Would you be able to tell me about yourself?’ she probed gently,folding her hands in her lap. Rebekah's intuition, honed from years ofpractice, sensed the tempest beneath Daniel’s calm surface.
‘Sure,’ he said butthen fell silent, his foot now joining the restless symphony of his hands. Abead of sweat trailed down his temple despite the room's cool temperaturemaintained by a quietly humming air conditioner. Rebekah decided to prod himalong.
‘Sometimes, talkingabout even the small things can help us understand the bigger picture,’ Rebekahsaid. She kept her tone warm and inviting, yet her mind alert to Daniel’s clearundercurrents of distress.
He shifted in hisseat, the leather creaking under his movements. ‘I think... I mean, sometimespeople just annoy you, you know? Like they keep pushing buttons, theyshouldn't.’
Now she was gettingsomewhere, Rebekah thought. She preferred it when clients got right down to thenitty–gritty.
‘Absolutely,’ Rebekahnodded, watching him closely. ‘It's normal to feel frustrated when we'reprovoked.’
Daniel’s hands ceasedtheir fidgeting for a moment, clenching into fists before resuming their dance.The young man looked as though he wanted to unburden himself of a great weight,yet something held him back, the words catching in his throat like leaves in astorm drain.
‘Have... have you everwanted to stop someone from causing pain?’ Daniel asked. His voice cracked,barely audible over the quiet ticking of the wall clock.
‘Stopping pain is whatI'm here for,’ Rebekah responded, her tone steady, but her heart rate pickedup, sensing the precipice upon which they both teetered. ‘Who annoys you,exactly? Someone in particular, or a type of person?’
The room fell silent,save for the young man's labored breathing and the distant sound of trafficfrom the street below, punctuating the moment like a drumbeat presaging astorm.
‘Dr. Holden,’ theyoung man began, his voice a hoarse whisper that seemed to claw its way out ofa deep, dark place within him, ‘I have these... urges.’
The word hung in theair. Rebekah felt a jolt of alarm, her professional composure momentarilysliding like loose gravel underfoot. She leaned forward slightly, hands foldedon her notepad, her knuckles the same white as the paper.
‘Urges?’ she repeatedcarefully, her mind racing to maintain the facade of clinical detachment. ‘Whatkind of urges?’
‘Sometimes,’ Daniel continued,his gaze now fixed on the floor as if he could no longer bear the weight of eyecontact, ‘I want to kill.’
The confessiondetonated silently in the room. Rebekah’s breath caught in her throat, herpulse quickening as she processed his words. She had heard many confessions inthis room, some disturbing, others heartbreaking, but this was different. Thiswas a chilling proclamation that edged toward the unthinkable.
Kill was a word that didn't belong in this space, a malignant intruderthat violated the safety of her office. Rebekah’s training kicked in, her braincataloging possible disorders, potential risk factors, but there was anotherpart of her, the primal, human part, that recoiled in shock.
‘Are you telling meyou've thought about harming others?’ Her voice was steady, but inside, herthoughts scrambled for purchase. Was this an expression of pent–up anger? Theresult of parental neglect or abuse? It was no secret that patients oftenembellished or fabricated stories. They did it for attention, as a cry forhelp, or simply because their grasp on reality was tenuous at best. This youngman before her, though, with his twitching limbs and haunted eyes, presented adisturbing enigma of which Rebekah didn’t have enough data to unfurl.
‘Yes. But I don’t wantto. It eats at me. I want to stop.’
‘Thoughts of causingharm can sometimes be a symptom of underlying issues,’ she offered, trying tosteer the conversation toward therapeutic ground. ‘It's important that weexplore these feelings, understand where they're coming from.’
Was he a fantasistseeking the thrill of reaction, or something far more dangerous? She couldn'tlet her professionalism slip; her role was to remain the anchor in the tempestof her patients' emotions. Yet, as the shadows seemed to press closer aroundthem, Rebekah couldn’t shake off the visceral dread that clung to her like asecond skin, whispering warnings that this session was veering into unchartedterritories.
Rebekah adjusted herseating, the leather chair creaking under her shifting weight. She observed theyoung man through a lens of professional concern, an analytical barrier she hadconstructed for moments just like this. His hands were clenched into fists sotight that his knuckles blanched, and he seemed to be wrestling with aninvisible adversary seated right there on the plush sofa.
Daniel took in a deepbreath, a shaky intake of air that did little to steady his voice when he spokeagain. ‘I've killed,’ he whispered, and the simplicity of his confession hungheavy in the room. ‘And if you can't help me, I'll kill again.’
The words clawed theirway into Rebekah's consciousness, shredding through her professionaldetachment. Her heart hammered against her ribs, each beat screaming for her totake him seriously. This was no longer about therapeutic techniques ordiagnoses; it was about life and death. The familiar surroundings of her officebecame suddenly alien, every shadow cast by the late afternoon sun threateningto conceal untold dangers.
Rebekah fought tomaintain her composure, searching his face for any signs of deceit. But whatshe saw was not the erratic delusion of a fantasist; it was raw, unfilteredtruth. There was no artifice in the way his eyes glistened, no pretense in thetremble of his lips. The young man crumbled before her, shoulders heaving assobs began to wrack his body.
Panic flared withinher, white–hot and blinding, but Rebekah knew she couldn't succumb to it. Sheneeded to think clearly, act responsibly. The realization hit her like aphysical blow – she had to keep him here, keep him talking. With tremblingfingers, she reached for the notepad on her desk, pretending to write somethingdown but was really scrambling for a way out. As a therapist, she was bound byconfidentiality, but in rare cases like this, when a client posed a threat toothers, there were legal and ethical considerations.
