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CHAPTERONE
JORDAN
I knowwhat this looks like.
“Mr. Winters, I asked you a question,” she addresses me. She doesn’t look at me. People rarely do. “Give me your number.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” I respond. My family has my phone number. That’s it.
She clears her throat, and she draws a thick line on her white notepad. Her nails are always cut neatly, and her cuticles are intact. “You don’t pay attention. Mr. Winters. Nothing gets past you in the real world, but when we’re in this room, you don’t listen. I asked for a number that means something to you.”
The couch I sit on is brand-new. Every year, the palace finances a new one. I’m supposed to relax and lie down. I’ve never done that in my therapist’s presence. What is a number that means something to me?
4.My son’s jersey number comes to mind. Indianapolis will retire that number, and if they don’t, they’ll have a massacre to deal with. Massacre.
“3013.” I run my hand over my black beanie. It’s the new one my son sent me after he got his third ring. It feels good to know at least one of us has accomplished something great.
“And what does that number symbolize?” she asks.
“Death,” I tell her. As expected, she freezes. Her doe eyes finally glimpse at me, and I feed off the fear she emanates. Fuck, this makes me hard, and I’m not even interested. I don’t fuck girls like her. If she wasn’t my doctor, I would’ve never even spared her a glance. She’s not my type. Ivy Lin, her anglicized name, is the goody-two-shoes protégé my daughter-in-law Kamila, the Queen of Katantia, hired five years ago. She’s one of the doctors the palace pays to heal their traumatized nation. A load of bullshit if you ask me, but then again, I’m the one meeting a psychiatrist every month.
I’ve encountered this woman fifty times ever since she stepped foot on Katantia. I know where she lives, what she eats, who her friends are, and who she fucks. That last part is easy. She doesn’t fuck anybody, and it rubs me the wrong way. She’s too perfect to remain un-fucked on Katantia.
“D-death?” she stutters, and I can’t help my grin. Ivy is a professional, and I’m sure she’s heard a lot of crap in her five years of Katantia.
But I doubt she’s ever had a murderer on this seat.
Not that she knows that I’m a murderer.
3013 is one of my deepest secrets. Travis died with his number, and I will die with mine. We don’t kiss and tell in my business.
“I’m messing with you,” I say, and she relaxes her tense shoulders. Everything about her is correct, from her posture to her tentative breathing. “It’s the street address of my childhood home.”
Ivy nods, biting her lip. She’s flustered, tucking her jet-black hair behind her ear. “You said your foster parents were murdered. Is that why that number symbolizes death for you?”
I nod, and she takes in the movement. Her lips are heart-shaped, not too plump, and not too slim. They’re somewhere in the middle. A glance at how she carries herself, I see that she takes no notice of my eyes trailing every detail of her body.
Ivy Lin’s a professional.
I am, too. We’re in different businesses, that’s all.
Fylox, my favorite second-in-command, once described us as professional stalkers, but we’re more than that. We’re pitch black, and our eyes have seen things that no ordinary stalker would deal with. I protect what’s mine, and what’s mine now is this country and the family that runs it. What’s mine is my son, who’s still in States, working his ass off to be better than I ever was.
“Mr. Winters…” People don’t say that name to me. Kamila’s palace runs itself on a first-name basis. Ivy Lin’s one of the few that say that name to me. It’s a name I made up. It doesn’t mean anything to me, but Ms. Lin believes it’s what defines me, so I let her. I’ve given her starving curiosity crumbs of my life, and she’s still not fed. She never will be. “Mr. Winters, are you still smoking cannabis?”
My daughter-in-law Kamila’s pregnant now, so she and Fylox have stopped smoking with me on the palace’s roof. Now, I do it alone–without the people my son’s in a relationship with. Yes, he has a wife, and his best friend’s part of their relationship.
Instead of addressing my doctor, I nod at Ms. Lin. My psychiatrist gives me a look that I would interpret as a glare if I cared enough.
She shuts her notepad, folding her hands on her lap. Her jeans-clad legs are crossed, her feet tucked away in black pumps. Her style is all over the place. She’s trying to prove something, but I don’t think she knows what exactly.
“I think our time’s up.” My gaze turns to the old clock behind her office on the other side of the room. I rise from the couch, ready to go about my day. I have grandpa duties at the palace.
She clears her throat. “Do you think I’m of help?”
I forget how young she is. She came to us in her late twenties, about to earn her credentials. I’ve seen her glow up in her field. Even if I don’t believe in this shit myself. Inhaling, I straighten my posture. “You’re brilliant. I’m not the easiest patient to have. Keep up the good work.”
“We’ve been seeing each other for years.”Fifty times, to be exact. I have eyes on her because outside of this office, I don’t have time to worry about a doctor’s loose mouth. Ivy Lin is a professional, though. She hasn’t let my ramblings about my life reach outside of our sessions. Good for her. “I just don’t see the point—”
