1. Sophie

1

SOPHIE

I n a therapy first, I have a dead body on my office floor. A very tall man is leaning over it, his hands pressing against the corpse's neck. Not ten minutes ago, he burst into my office and lunged at my now-dead client.

I stand against the wall, my hand pressing to my mouth. George , I tell myself. I keep calling George a corpse, a dead body, it … because frankly, I’m shocked how quickly he became one.

I haven’t a clue what to do with a dead body, but this stranger acts like he sees them every Tuesday. As he pulls his hands away from George and stands up, he looks nonplussed. As if death is just another part of his day.

The blonde stranger smiles at me over my dead client. He has blue eyes so pale they’re nearly gray. He’s wearing a forest green jacket over a white hoodie, jeans, and boots. Casual but put together. Clean. Thirty-ish.

“Who are you?” I ask. His eyes find the clock on my wall and sparkle.

“Your ten o’clock. But if this guy is done, I’m happy to start early.”

“I…” have no words .

Suddenly, a pair of paramedics rush through the open door of my office. They drop to their knees, spending a few minutes attempting CPR before calling it.

I’ve never had a client die during a therapy session. When he fell over, I rounded the desk in an instant. I yelled out, and that’s when the large man burst into the room. He’d tried to help, even performed his own CPR, but there wasn’t anything that could be done. My assistant must have called 911 while the man and I watched George die.

“Time of death, nine forty?—”

“Nine thirty-two,” my icy-eyed giant interrupts. The paramedics look up at him. I expect them to insist he gets out. Instead, familiarity washes over them.

“Oh, it’s the new guy! Samuel?”

“Soren,” he corrects.

So he’s a paramedic. Well, that explains his weird detachment and maybe even the disturbing sense of humor. Except as I watch his on-duty workmates deal with my dead client, there’s something slightly different in the way they handle it. I wouldn’t notice if I wasn’t already keyed into Soren’s demeanor.

When he thinks no one is paying attention, he stares at the dead body with a blank look. He does it several times before he notices I’m watching him. A smile blooms on his face when he’s caught, making it even more odd. Shouldn’t he be embarrassed?

Maybe I’m being too sensitive. I just watched a man have an aneurysm, or something , for Christ’s sake. It’s natural that I’m trying to focus on something to help deal with the shock of it.

I also happen to have the peculiar habit of looking for signs of psychopathy in normal people. I guess I think it would be fascinating for my barista to secretly kill people between one peppermint frappe and the next.

Finally, I unglue myself from the wall and smooth my hand down my sweater. Psychopathy is an old obsession I can’t shake, no matter how many years ago I swore off studying killers and committed myself to therapy instead. Family counseling is a safe, decently easy career. Researching killers and psychopaths is not only disturbing to nearly everyone but also doesn’t pay well. And hey, if family counseling was a little boring? Well, that’s just the price to pay for normalcy.

Eventually, the paramedics and my dead client leave. It’s just Soren and me. No body to smile over.

My office looks the same as it did before. There’s a bit of red garland hanging festively from my desk that I put up this morning. My hot chocolate is cooling in a mug, soggy marshmallows floating on top.

Has it really been less than thirty minutes since everything was boringly normal? I let out a breath and rub my forehead. I’m not sure what to do. Do I cancel the rest of my appointments? My eyes catch a wet stain on my long skirt. Some of my drink must have spilled when I slammed it down.

Soren sits in the chair that my last client unexpectedly vacated. I look at the side of his head in confusion. His hair is pale and somewhat of a mess on top of his head, as if he came straight from hiking or some other outdoor sport. The slopes aren’t open for another week, or I’d guess he was snowboarding or skiing.

He twists his head and looks at me staring at him. I’m uncomfortable with how attractive I find him. It’s inappropriate after what just happened and because apparently, he’s my ten o’clock client. This makes him Soren Erikson, a divorcee struggling with sharing custody of his kids. Not a psychopath.

“And that’s a good thing, Sophie,” my voice of reason chides.

Soren raises an eyebrow as I keep staring at him. My face heats as I realize I’m gawking. Suddenly, I feel compelled to get on with the day. He’s acting so normal that I follow his suit and sit in my chair across from him.

“Sorry about that,” I say.

“Why? You didn’t kill him, right?” He raises an eyebrow as humor sparkles in his pale eyes. I stare, again. Maybe there really is something off about him.

My intense concentration doesn’t go unnoticed by him. He looks a bit scolded. I rub my forehead again. I’m just stressed. I’m about to open my mouth and tell him we’ll reschedule, but he speaks up before I can.

“Thank you for seeing me on short notice.” The humor drains out of him in an instant. A brief look of defeat crosses his face and he sags further into the chair. I take a deep breath and decide to get on with it. We’re already here.

“Of course.” I look at George’s open file. He was a new client, too. I get a lot during the holiday season. I close it and set it aside. I hardly knew the man for thirty minutes, but it’s still odd.

I pull out a blank notepad. Soren watches me take the pen cap off with the sort of mild hostility common in those who’ve never had therapy before. I’ve been growing achingly tired with things lately, but now I’m grateful for the well-worn monotony. It’s helping me shake off what just happened.

“So, you’re Soren Erikson, then?”

“I am. You’re Doctor Moore, then?” He mimics. A slight smirk begins to curl the side of his mouth, but he drops it the instant I notice. He rubs his mouth and readjusts in the chair.

“Sorry,” he says with a frown. “I should be more serious in serious situations.” There’s frustration and a bite of anger in his words. Divorcee indeed. Guess someone’s ex didn’t like a sense of humor to lighten the mood. Then again, maybe she thought he was a psychopath too.

Stop it , I tell myself.

“I’m depressed,” Soren admits with a sigh. I’m a little surprised at the ease he talks about his mental health. He’s reluctant to discuss the reason his marriage dissolved, though. Instead, he keeps me focused on the emptiness he feels when his kids are with their mother. Along with the difficulty of the recent move to the East Coast, when his ex is still on the West.

The amount of eye contact while we talk is making me flush. I’m upset with myself. He isn’t flirting with me; he’s just European or something. His accent is practically non-existent, but there’s a hint now and again. Given his name, I’m assuming he’s originally Norwegian. They probably love staring each other in the eyes over there. It’s probably a sign of very platonic respect.

I’ve been giving him far too much attention ever since he burst into the room. There’s nothing off or disturbing about him that I can tell. What psychopath goes to a therapist because he’s depressed that he can’t see his kids everyday?

I’m just far too aware of him—the amount of space he takes up, the flutter in my belly when he smiles, the way his eyes settle on me as if there's nothing else in the room. My fascination with him isn’t secret psychopathy he’s expertly hiding. It’s because he’s extremely attractive.

I swallow thickly and decide my dry spell has gone on long enough if I can’t focus on clients' problems over their good looks. I push all those thoughts away as best I can to focus on this strong, tall, windswept paramedic who is achingly handsome and needs my help.

I clear my throat.

“You need to focus on yourself while your kids are with their mother.” His eyes dip to my mouth as if reading my lips. I tug on my turtleneck and straighten my back.

“Routines can be helpful to fall back on. Also, what do you do for fun?” I ask.

“Scroll on my phone,” he admits with a wince.

“Consider this an opportunity for self-improvement. Get back into something you had to give up.” He frowns a little. “Or try something you always wanted to get into but couldn’t for whatever reason.” That seems to be the better choice because he perks up.

“Maybe,” he says softly. “I’m not sure I should.”

“Why not?” I ask.

“It’s… selfish.” He’s picking his words with extreme care for some reason.

“If you can concentrate on a new hobby, I think it would help you a lot.” He takes his time digesting my words.

“Is it really okay?” He asks, rubbing his jaw as he leans back in his chair. The question isn’t directed at me, but I choose to answer anyway.

“Yes, Soren. It’s okay to explore new things when your kids aren’t around.” We stare at each other until I look away suddenly.

“There is something I’ve always been interested in. It felt unrealistic. Risky.” He rubs his mouth as if in thought, but I spot a smile behind his hand, which he’s trying to hide.

“Can I ask what it is?”

His eyes widen in shock.

“Photography,” he blurts out, looking alarmed for a moment.

“That’s risky?” I ask with a small smile.

“Very.” He winks at me.

I look down at my empty notepad. I've been so concentrated on looking at him that I’ve written no notes.

With creeping guilt, I realize I’ve been flirting with him the whole second half of the appointment. Playful conversation, small smiles, tugging on the turtleneck, my eyes dancing across his wide shoulders.

Worse, he’s been reciprocating.

Becoming a rebound for a recently divorced client would be a massive lapse of judgment.

“You should do it,” I say, setting my pen down and folding my hands in my lap. “You can afford some risk, and there’s no reason to feel guilty about spending this time a little selfishly.”

“Well, if you think it’ll help,” he says tentatively. He runs his hand through his shaggy hair and sighs. “I don’t like this lost feeling. It’s empty.”

“A hobby is the right direction,” I say, pushing this path even harder. I truly want to help him. Half the battle is convincing clients to do something actionable. Most of the time, they ignore me, leaving me confused about what they really want.

Soren smiles at me again, and I bite my lip to control the returning smile.

“You’ve got dimples,” he comments.

“I’m giving you homework,” I say suddenly. He blinks, a little surprised. “Before your next appointment, I want you to try out photography.”

“You’re sure?” He’s staring at me intensely. I get the satisfying feeling that he’s going to listen to me and actually try what I suggest.

“Absolutely.”

“Okay.” He looks a bit overwhelmed, confused, and elated all at once. I’ve never seen someone react so dramatically about photography. Whatever the case, I feel good about this.

The minute he steps out of my office, I redownload my dating app. I have my own homework before his next appointment. Get laid so I stop flirting with him.