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Unless he was talking about his pretty young things. Then he was almost... dreamy.
That scared Sam a lot.
Sam hoped that these young women—whatever their age—were merely figments of Colton’s imagination. Images he’d perhaps seen in a movie, weaving them into the stories he told his court-ordered therapist because he had a compulsion to do so.
But Sam didn’t think that was the case.
He sat in his own chair in the treatment area, always avoiding sitting behind his desk during sessions. “So, Mr.Driscoll, tell me about your week.”
About six feet tall with a lean, wiry build, Colton was forty-five years old, had been married four times, and had no children. He wasn’t model-handsome, but when he smiled, he was oddly compelling.
Sam suspected that was how he’d been married four times, his brides always eighteen years old. Another red flag. Colton liked them young. He’d charmed his wives, but they’d all left after learning that nearly every word out of his mouth was a self-serving lie.
Colton shrugged stiffly. “Same old, same old.”
That was new. Usually he’d have claimed that he’d had dinner with royalty by now.
“Nothing new or interesting?”
“Nope.”
Ah. Colton was stonewalling. Maybe because he’d scared himself last session by talking too freely.
A tiny part of Sam was relieved. He didn’t want to know about Colton’s pretty young things. But a bigger part of him needed to know. If Colton had his sights set on a new victim, he needed to know who that victim would be. He had a duty to warn.
“Any major blowups this week? Losing your temper?”
“Nope.”
“I see. Okay. Well, you have to engage with me during the session or I can’t check it off your list. If you don’t complete the therapy, you’ll—”
“I know,” Colton snarled quietly. “I’ll violate my probation and I’ll go to fucking jail.”
“That’s right,” Sam said cheerfully. “So... talk to me.”
Colton seethed quietly. “I have nothing to say.”
“No dinners with the Hollywood A-list? B-list?” he added when Colton remained stubbornly silent. “Z-list?”
Colton looked dead ahead. “This sucks.”
“I suppose it does. What about your work? How are you getting along with your coworkers?”
“Fucking morons,” Colton muttered. “I do all the work there. All those damn millennials sit around on their asses and watch me.”
Colton worked in the mail room at one of the high-rise office complexes downtown. Sam had no idea if him doing all the work was the truth, but it was the first time Colton had complained about his coworkers.
“I think that would make me angry.”
“Damn straight.”
“What do you do when they make you angry?”
Colton’s expression shut down. “I don’t hit them.”
“That’s good to hear. So... do you talk to them? Glare at them? Shake their canned sodas?”
Colton chuckled. “I like the idea of the canned sodas.”
