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‘Been in here a few times over the years.Used to call himself an anarchist or some gibberish.’
Ella absorbed every detail. Thedescription matched the profile of someone who could strangle the life out oftwo people without blinking.
‘Thanks, Chief. That'sexactly what we needed to know.’
Ripley was already at the door. ‘Thiscould be our unsub, Dark. Let’s go.’
Ella clocked the time. Just after midday.If the killer was keeping up his pattern of midday killings, they could alreadybe too late.
This was Ella’s moment to catch themonster that had cruelly taken two innocent lives, and nothing would stand inher way.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Penelope Olson prided herself on herability to spot a faker a mile off.
Some clients visited her out of curiosity.Some knew there was something wrong with them but couldn’t pinpoint what. Somehad been caught cheating by their wives and so went to therapy under the guiseof curing their non-existent sex addiction.
But the new patient sitting in front ofher remained an enigma.
‘I'm Penelope,’ she said. ‘It's good tomeet you.’
The man was young, his physiquewell-built, the kind that suggested an acquaintance with physical labor. Hewasn’t without a certain rugged appeal, however, the appeal was somewhat marredby his attire; his clothes, though casual, begged for an iron's touch.
He nodded, his gaze briefly meeting hersbefore skittering away, a gesture laden with a myriad of unspoken emotions.
‘Darren,’ he offered, the name coming outas a guarded whisper, as if it were a secret he was loath to share. Almostimmediately, he added, ‘But please, don't... don't use my name.’
Penelope, accustomed to navigating thecomplexities of the human psyche, recognized the plea for anonymity not as aquirk but as a symptom. Darren, or the young man who had chosen that name forthis hour, was ensnared in a struggle that had driven him to seek her out, yethis plea suggested a fear of being truly seen.
From her initial assessment, he wasn’t afaker.
‘Well, you’re safe here, sir,’ she said.‘This space is yours, and I’m here to be a sounding board for your thoughts,feelings, whatever’s on your mind.’
Darren's response was a tight nod, hisbody language a mosaic of tension. His hands, clenched into fists on his knees,suggested there was a battle raging within. Nerves were perfectly normal,Penelope reminded herself. Not all clients, especially the younger demographic,were comfortable talking about their hardships. Even in today’s world, youngmen were still considered one rung above cannon fodder. They had disadvantagesat every turn, so it was only natural they’d withdraw then forced to confront theissues that plagued them.
‘Thank you,’ he finally said, his voice afraction steadier, but still tinged with an undercurrent of distress. ‘It'sjust... hard, you know?’
Penelope nodded. ‘Why don’t you tell meabout yourself? What does your life look like? Job, hobbies, relationship withparents?’
‘Work... I do construction,’ Darrenmanaged. ‘Hobbies. I don’t have any. I used to draw.’
‘Sketching is a wonderful outlet,’Penelope encouraged, sensing a crack in his armored facade. ‘It's expressive,therapeutic even. What did you like to sketch?’
‘Places. The landmarks around here.’
‘Did you have a favorite?’
His lips twitched in the ghost of a smile,a brief illumination in the gloom that seemed to perpetually surround him. ‘ThePierhead Lighthouse. You know the one at the Coast Guard station?’
‘Yes, I'm familiar with it. It's abeautiful structure,’ she replied. ‘What about it speaks to you?’
‘I don’t know,’ Darren said firmly. ‘Itcalms me down.’
Darren's initial ease began to ebb away,replaced by a growing restlessness. His foot tapped an erratic rhythm on thefloor, his fingers twisted together in his lap.
Penelope observed these signs with apracticed eye, recognizing the shift in his demeanor for what it was—a preludeto a revelation, perhaps, or a retreat into silence.
Penelope ventured carefully. ‘Is theresomething on your mind that's causing you distress? What do you need calmingdown from?’
