Page 39 of Her Wicked Plan

I don’t hold back the laugh at her playing the therapist. “As I’ve said, the sessions aren’t about me.”

“I know,” she admits. “But you listen to all of my problems. Who listens to yours?”

“My best friend,” I answer her honestly. “He is always the one I go to with my issues or my mother.”

She clicks her tongue. “A momma’s boy?”

“No.” Maybe. “She just always knows the right thing to say.”

Why am I opening up to her like this? Maybe it will help when I ask her questions. If I’m open and honest, she will be, too.

“What does she think about you working in a place like this?” Veronica asks, her hands draped over the arms of the chair.

I relax back in my seat. “She’s proud of me. She told me I was given this job for a reason and that if anyone could help a patient in need, then it would be me.”

A soft chuckle escapes her. She doesn’t have to say it aloud to me to know what she is thinking. She can’t be fixed. None of the patients I’ve worked with thought they could be, but I always proved them wrong.

“Word of affirmation.” The sentence threw me for a loop. “Is that your love language or whatever they call it? You like to be told you’re doing a good job?”

Swallowing hard, I clear my throat and lean forward. “Why don’t we start the session for today?”

I press the red button on the recorder and pick up my pen. “How often do you think about what you’ve done?”

Her eyes narrow in confusion. “You’ll have to be more specific, Leo. I’ve done a lot of things.”

“Such as?” The tip of my pen rested against the paper.

“Well, there is the obvious one. That I killed that guy.” She shrugs. “Or maybe you are talking about the way I threatened Eliza.” Veronica’s eyes light up as her arms fall from where they were resting and into her lap. She’s being very talkative today. It's strange. Take it as a good sign, Leo. “Or it could be what I’ve been doing before bed every night. How I’ve been touching myself until I pass out from the pleasure.”

My cheeks heat, pushing back the images she is planting inside my head. Nope. I’m no longer taking her sudden adoration for talking as a good sign.

“Want to know what I was thinking about?”

I have a feeling I already know what she is going to say.

“Option one.” I clear my throat again. “How often do you think about the man you killed?”

“What makes you think I waste my thoughts on that man?” Her voice turns from flirty to harsh in a millisecond. She doesn’t want to talk about it but too fucking bad. Like I said, I’m done with her pushing the questions to the side.

“I just wanted to know if you felt anything when you thought about it?”

“I feel nothing about what I did to him.” She states. “Unless you are talking about my nightly activities. I would be more than happy to discuss my feelings.”

“Veronica,” I warn.

“I can tell in your eyes that you are curious.” That coy tone is back in her voice. “Are you thinking about it? Imagining it?”

“What about your sister?” I change the subject, blocking out the images of her touching herself. “How often do you think about her?”

Veronica huffs out a breath of defeat. “More than I’d like to.”

Okay. That's a good answer. “Have you spoken to her since you’ve been here? Any visits or letters?”

She laughs.

“What’s so funny?” I lift a brow.

“That you think she’d want to come see me. You didn’t see the look in her eyes when she found out I had killed her boyfriend. Pure horror and disgust. She won’t come see me.”