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I was quiet for a moment, remembering the numbness that had gradually taken over the empathy I’d felt for my clients, eventually replaced by impatience, even anger. I had known going into counseling that burnout could happen to anyone, but on some level I guess I’d always thought I would be the exception. When I left counseling, it felt like a surrender. This could be a chance to overcome my past, to put to rest the remaining feelings of guilt that still occasionally kept me up at night. “Yes,” I said finally, “It won’t be an issue.”
Bonita nodded, pleased. “And you yourself don’t drink, is that right?”
“It is,” I said. I had watched my father succumb to alcohol when my mother died, and while he was doing better now, that memory, as well as the struggles I had seen with my former clients, was more than enough to put me off alcohol forever.
“Excellent,” Bonita said. “The Beast has agreed to be profiled on the strict condition that the journalist on the assignment be completely sober. He won’t let them into his home otherwise.” Bonita paused. “I won’t lie to you,” she said. “This won’t be a simple job. Martin is still entirely reclusive, so you’ll need to relocate to his...estate for the duration of the piece. Is that something you’re comfortable with?”
I bit my lip. I didn’t exactly like the idea of leaving my father for possibly several months. Papa had six children, three boys and three girls, but it was me he always depended on, especially since my mother’s death nearly five years ago. But… Luis was still sniffing around, refusing to accept that our marriage was over, that I wasn’t coming back. I had all but given up on him ever signing the divorce papers I’d sent almost a year ago. I had to admit, a few months of Luis being unable to contact me did sound appealing. Maybe then he would finally, finally get the message.
I flipped slowly through the folder in front of me, skimming the information it contained. The Beast had begun his career as a media darling, the subject of glowing fluff pieces and flattering photos. His marriage to a fellow wrestler was treated with all the fanfare of a royal wedding.
But as time went on, the public turned on him as he descended into the world of drugs and alcohol, all meticulously documented by the paparazzi that followed him everywhere. In addition to the publicity photos and tabloid articles, there was also a brief bio on the ex-wife, Agatha, who went by the stage name Enchantress. Never quite as mainstream successful as The Beast, she was still a powerhouse in her own right. After a messy divorce, she had gradually faded from the spotlight as well, though not so dramatically as her ex-husband.
As I kept skimming, I felt my eyebrows shoot up. “I’m sorry, he lives in a castle?” I said.
Bonita nodded, grinning. “Complete with full household staff,” she said. “I don’t think living there for a few months would be any kind of hardship for you.”
“A castle,” I repeated, slightly dazed. “Who on earth is this guy?”
“As I understand it, he made some...questionable financial decisions as part of his downward spiral,” Bonita explained. “A lot of the usual: expensive cars, a private plane, and yes, a bonafide castle a few hours west of the city.”
Throughout my perusal of the file, I found myself returning again and again to the second page, the picture of The Beast and his ex-wife. The expression on his face both chilled and fascinated me. “Is he…” I paused, searching for the right words. “I mean, is he dangerous?” I had had enough of dangerous men to last me a lifetime.
“There were never any allegations of domestic abuse, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Bonita assured me. I nodded, biting my lip apprehensively. That didn’t necessarily mean he wasn’t dangerous.
A new question suddenly occurred to me: “What changed?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, you say he’s been completely reclusive for five years,” I said. “Why does he want to come back into the public eye now?”
Bonita shrugged. “That’s your job to find out,” she said. “The man essentially disappeared for half a decade, why? What has he been doing all this time? And most importantly, why should we care about him now?”
I still felt uneasy. The file in my hands painted a picture of a man who had been badly, perhaps irrevocably broken, and I knew better than most how fragile a breakdown like that could leave a person, even so many years later.
I couldn’t imagine the demons that would prompt a man to withdraw from society completely, but I knew that a piece like the one Bonita wanted could easily cross the line into exploitation, and that was a line I refused to cross.
