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She said nothing as she entered, ignoring him while carrying out her routine of settling in. Kenna retrieved the two notebooks she’d dedicated to their sessions. Her ghostly fingers clutched the journals, pale skin creating a jarring juxtaposition even against the lighter, pastel bound book. He’d noticed she wrote in the indigo one with growing frequency, not often reaching for its lavender companion.
Cracking the indigo notebook open, she scrawled on its lined pages with urgency. Her grip on the writing utensil was frightening. Aggression ruled her pen strokes and Dayton sat watching, wondering what had her so fired up.
He propped his feet up on the corner of his desk. “Most people keep those under lock and key.”
She didn’t acknowledge his comment as her pen continued sailing across the pages. His pulse picked up its synthetic pace. He delighted in Kenna’s emotiveness, savoring the pinch of her brow and flush of her cheeks. If only they could’ve spent the afternoon together, free from patients, with him sitting in silent reverence as she filled those lines.
“Aren’t you too old for a diary?”
One corner of Dr. Merino’s mouth tightened and Kenna forced herself to look away for she knew that if she stared, her heart would overshadow her purpose.
To find out if he’d slept with a patient.
His smirk would have vanished in an instant if he saw what lurked inside her notebook. Notes detailing his behavior. It wasn’t much to look at in its current state but Kenna had faith that she’d pick up bits of information over the course of the semester. As things stood, she had no reason to contact Charlee Pender though she burned to learn what connection she had to Dr. Merino. What would she have said?
Hey Charlee, I stalked my mentor online and noticed that you two have some kind of history. Also, I think he slept with an acquaintance of mine’s sister. Know anything about that?
She had resolved not to message Charlee unless a situation arose that warranted doing so.
“It’s not a diary. It’s a journal.”
He was having one of his mellow days, feet on his desk and head resting casually on the back of his chair. Conversations with Dr. Merino were not as unnerving on these occasions—a welcome change from his no-nonsense persona. Since she started notating his behavior, she’d figured out that his moods were unfiltered in the afternoon.
The exact cause for this evaded her, but medication was high on her list of possibilities.
His gaze stayed glued to the ceiling, dazed and confused. “Is there a difference?”
“Yes, I’d say so.” She curled up in her chair, mimicking his vibe of comfort. “Diaries are for egocentric little girls who put so much stock in their secrets, they feel compelled to ‘keep them under lock and key,’ as you said. Journals, at least in my case, are curated with academic intent. But yes, feelings sometimes play a part in my research process.”
“I have a diary, of sorts. Does that make me an egocentric little girl?”
“You do?”
Dr. Merino nodded, folding his arms over his stomach and shooting her a sidelong glance. “You talk like a textbook that came to life. I bet you don’t set foot outside of your apartment on the weekends.”
Kenna’s shoulders tightened. “Apartment?”
“Just an assumption,” he amended, but the way he converted to his a.m. desk posture belied this forged assurance. “Houses aren’t exactly cheap to rent around here.”
Had intimidating young women been Dr. Merino’s profession, he was due for a promotion.
He wasn’t trying to scare her—he was succeeding—but it was rage rather than fear that consumed her. Her teeth clenched as her insides boiled.
Kenna refused to sit idly by as he employed his intimidation tactics. Blood-curdling screeches erupted from her chair as she dragged it across the floor toward Dr. Merino.
She plopped into it, planting her forearms on the desk. “What were you doing in the library this morning?”
He hunched over the desk on his side.
“Is it a crime to wander the aisles of the library?”
Unsafe was an underestimation of how she was coming to feel in his presence. He’d looked at her file and shown up at her workplace. And though there was some degree of plausible deniability since she worked on campus, she came up empty for a reason as to why a psychiatrist might need to visit the library.
“No, it isn’t. But you know what is?” Kenna asked, stoic posture inflexible. “Stalking.”
Though his high had started to take effect, Dayton didn’t flinch at the allegation. Deflecting such comments had become second nature. An evolutionary adaptation he’d acquired in his role of ruthless researcher.
“I’d be careful slinging around false accusations, Miss O’Callaghan. Dean Raza doesn’t take lightly to liars.”
