"Now?" she asks, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Now," I confirm.
She hesitates, glancing around the kitchen like she's trying to find an escape that doesn't exist. Slowly, she releases the chair she had been gripping and moves toward the fridge. I watch her open it, take out a leftover slice of pizza, and pop it into the microwave.
She hands it to me when it's ready, and I take a bite, grimacing at the rubbery texture. "It tastes terrible," I mutter, putting it aside. My eyes find her, watching as she moves back toward where she was standing, her hands nervously clasped.
"So, who took you in?" she asks again, her voice trembling slightly, as if she's afraid of my answer.
"The police," I say, swallowing hard. "After my mother died, I went after one of the men responsible. I was still young and stupid, and they caught me easily. Spent seven years in juvenile detention before I got out." My words are flat.
She stares at me, her eyes wide, trying to process everything. "I… I just don't know what to say," she admits finally.
We remain in silence for a long time after that. Darkness has completely settled outside, pressing against the windows, and the apartment feels smaller than it did earlier. The only sound is the faint hum of the refrigerator. Elena still hasn't sat down. I can see how tired she is from the way her shoulders droop slightly and how she keeps shifting her weight from one foot to the other, yet she refuses to take a seat. She is still too wary of me to allow herself that kind of comfort.
"Don't therapists always have something to say?" I finally ask, pushing myself up from the couch as I begin walking toward the door.
The shift in my movement makes her tense immediately. I can see it in the way her fingers grip the back of the couch beside her. It isn't far from the door, and I know she has calculated that distance already. Her apartment is small—tiny, really—painted in soft shades of pink with little decorative cushions and framed quotes on the walls.
"I've never had a session with a child that had such an experience," she says carefully.
I narrow my eyes at her, and she flinches. Is she comparing me to the kids she works with?
That flinch again.
We will have to work on that. I enjoy rattling her, yes, but this constant shrinking is beginning to irritate me. I do not want her afraid of me in that way. Controlled fear is one thing. Fragile fear is another.
"A child?" I repeat slowly, tilting my head. "Are you counting me among the children you work with?"
Her lips part, but she doesn't answer immediately.
I watch her closely, studying the way her throat moves when she swallows. She does not know whether to backtrack or stand her ground. It almost amuses me.
Truthfully, I don't mind her silence. She is like a personal diary people write their secrets into. And since I have never had the patience to put pen to paper, why not use her instead? I tell her what I want, when I want, and she listens.
As long as she keeps it to herself, we will be fine.
If she ever shares it with someone else…
Well.
That would become a problem. And I do not handle problems gently.
I slide my hands into my pockets, and I see her eyes sharpen instantly, tracking the movement as if she expects me to pull out a weapon. The thought almost makes me smile. Instead, I pull out her keys.
I walk past her toward the door, unlocking it calmly before turning back to look at her. She has not moved. Her back is facing me now.
"By the way, Elena," I begin, letting her name roll off my tongue slowly.
She turns her head slightly, peeking at me over her shoulder.
"If I won't be finding you in your office," I continue evenly, "we will be spending time here."
I open the door and step out without waiting for a response, pulling it closed behind me. The hallway is quiet as I make my way toward the elevator. Once inside, I take my phone out of my pocket and glance at the screen.
More instructions from my father.
The night is just beginning.