The corner of his mouth pulls into a slanted smile. “A psychologist that doesn’t like people. How ever do you manage that.”
I roll my lips, considering him. “I’m interested in the study of people, not in what they can do or be in relation to me,” I clarify. “That’s the difference between the average self-indulgent person and one who’s self-aware. “As a psychologist with years of training, I understand people on a level most don’t. In general, they’re selfish and tiresome, and I’d rather analyze them from a distance than pursue an intimate relationship.”
He laces his fingers together on his lap, his intense gaze hard on me. “That’s either the most truthful response, or the most evasive. Which, either way, reveals your fear.”
A chill coasts the column of my spine. “My fear,” I say slowly. “Are you trying to diagnose me, Dr. Sullivan?”
He sits back, never breaking eye contact. “Haven’t you already diagnosed yourself by now?”
“I suppose that’s a logical assumption.” And a wrong one. I’ve never analyzed myself. Not even in college, when every psych student was obsessed with dissecting their own psyche.Back then, I had a theory that, before you can diagnose another person, you first have to exorcise your own personal demons.
A rather daunting task, as I soon realized it was easier to simply co-exist with mine than try to expel them. Once I accepted that, it was easy enough to move forward, to succeed even. And I succeeded right to the top of my class.
“A logical assumption,” Grayson echos me, a challenge sparking behind his vibrant gaze. “Is it a logical assumption that you’re a pathological liar?”
He wants to bait me, to get a reaction. I straighten my spine, trying to ease the ache in my lower back. Grayson’s eyebrows draw together—too subtle to convey concern, but enough to show he notices my discomfort.
“Do you think I’ve lied to you during our sessions?” I ask him, taking back my role.
“No,” he says. “I don’t think you lie to your patients. I think you lie to yourself, especially about your fears.”
I keep my tone natural. “That’s a severe assessment. Even so, we all lie to ourselves to some extent. It’s the way our mind protects us. If we realized just how insignificant we truly are, well—” I laugh “—we might lose the will to live.”
“Lose the will to live. That’s interesting.” He leans forward, staring at me as though he’s puzzling me out.
He likes puzzles.
I press back farther into the chair. Touch my forehead, willing the pain away. “Have you given much thought to the outcome of the trial?” I ask, shifting the topic.
“What are you trying to protect yourself from?”
“Excuse me?”
“You said that lying to yourself is a defense mechanism,” he says. “I want to know what you’re trying so hard to avoid. What you need protection from.”
I grasp the arms of my chair and pull myself up to stand. “I’m not playing your head games, Grayson. This little indulgence is over.”
“Who hurt you?” He stands so abruptly, I flinch, retreating behind my chair before his chains snap taut, locking him in place.
My gaze darts to my desk, to where the hidden panic button is positioned beneath the edge. Grayson tracks my line of sight, then he looks at me, smiles. “Go ahead. Press it,” he dares.
I swallow, controlling my breathing. “If I do, then this will be our last session.”
Dejection fills his eyes before he’s able to mask his expression. I remind myself that it’s not genuine emotion. He’s an expert manipulator.
He proves this when he steps back and rubs his wrist. “I would miss our time together, Dr. Noble. You are helping me.”
It’s not difficult to tell when you’re being lied to, just look for the manipulator’s tell: a tug of the ear, a touch of the hair. Rubbing a body part. Only with Grayson, I’m not sure if he’s lying about my helping him, or that he’ll miss our sessions—missme.
“You want me to believe that you didn’t just do that on purpose,” I say, crossing my arms.
He tries to feign confusion, but he can’t hold the act for long. His smile stretches wide, that dimple carving his cheek. My legs tremble under the impact. “Maybe I want you to question which part of all this is true.”
“Mission accomplished,” I say. “If you purposely set out to manipulate these sessions, then I have to believe you want to die. So I ask you again, is this a game? Your last hurrah before your execution? Are you intentionally wasting my time because yours is up?”
His hands fist at his sides, the chains rattling with the tension. His muscles, strained beneath the jumpsuit, give awaythe tremor of anger thrumming through his body. It’s the first raw emotion he’s given me, an unguarded reaction.
I threaten him.
