He rises and stretches, smiling. “I think we’re done. Thanks, Roshaan, for all your help. Good turnout, don’t you think?”
“Incredible. And it was a riveting talk.” She hesitates, then decides she’s got nothing to lose. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Of course.”
She swallows. “Among those women who were seduced by con men or killers, do you think those men ever truly loved them? Or was it always transactional?”
Dr. Marsh’s face softens. “Those men were psychopaths, Roshaan. Not wired for empathy. But they know how to perform affection perfectly. They turn it on and off as a tool—intermittent reinforcement to create emotional dependency and maintain coercive control to a point of complete dependency. For everything, including self-worth.”
“Is there a tipping point—a place where the woman can still get out? Or is it more like a frog in cold water, where the temperature isturned up so slowly that the water is boiling before they notice, and the frog can’t escape?”
He regards her in silence for several beats. The painting of Aeolus and his bag of winds looms behind him. The ship rolls again, and Roshaan steadies herself on the table.
Very quietly, Dr. Marsh says, “Roshaan, is there something in particular worrying you? Something I can help with?”
Her face goes hot. “No. I—I was just curious. I wondered if there comes a point where it’s too late, too dangerous for those women to leave. By that point maybe they know too much. In that sense, they’re victims, aren’t they?”
His gaze pins hers. “My reply would be this: How prepared are you to hurt others? There is a line. When someone knowingly allows others to suffer, they have crossed from victim to villain. Either way, there are consequences. It’s easier said than done, but you must choose your hard. Give him up. Or go down with him.”
It’s Criminal:
The Mystery of theBlack Orchid
A Trinity Scott & Gio Rossi True Crime Production
Evidence Log: Exhibit Rtxt 27—Recovered Voicemail
Roshaan DaSousa:
“Theo, please pick up. I need to talk.”
Evidence Log: Exhibit Rtxt 28—Recovered Voicemail
Roshaan DaSousa:
“Theo, please. I ... Hendrick Lodewijk made a comment about my ring. He used to be a gem dealer. He knows emeralds. Can we talk? About the ring, about what you said—or rather, didn’t say—when you gave it to me?”
Arrabella
Two Days, Twelve Hours To Impact
Sun streams in through the windows, rousing Arrabella from thick sleep. She blinks into the light—groggy, disoriented. She turns in bed, reaches for the other side.
No Patrick.
She sits up sharply.
His pillow is untouched, the sheets still smooth. He never came back? Panic scrabbles at the edges of her mind. What happened? What did she black out this time? A memory slams her—Poppy. The articles. Waiting for Patrick to return.
So where is he? Fear surges through her fog. She gets up, checks the bathroom. Empty. No sign of him in the hot tub outside, not in the plunge pool.
She can’t see any sign in the suite that he’s been back at all. She grabs her phone. There are no messages, no missed calls. No response to her last text. His earlier words ring through her mind:
I’ll agree to see her tonight, but in the morning I’m off this boat in Crete. Don’t try to change my mind.
She grabs her phone, hits the “call” icon. She pushes a tangle of hair back from her face as she waits for him to pick up.
It kicks straight to voicemail.
