Page 11 of Rather: The Therapist

There were two routes. Both on opposing sides with an equal amount of steps. With a hand on my chest and the other near my side, I began taking in every aspect, jotting every detail, and etching what was visible of figures in my head.

Right hand, tattoo.

Buzz cut. Neck tattoo.

A mother.

Gold rings, both hands.

Horribly tanned.

Veneers.

Botched surgery.

Friendly.

Overcompensating. Easily impressed.

Roberto. Fine designer. I commended the man closest to the end of the stairs.

Very expensive, very funky ass cologne.

Not into women.

Presidential, hidden clasp.

Hair transplant. Recently.

One after the other, I recited details about the guests that would help me locate them in the event that anything went astray. Hiding their faces wasn’t merely enough to keep me from uncovering their identity if circumstances required it.

The blueprints I’d acquired upon learning about The Mansion and Private Suites were beginning to make more sense. I combed over the floorplan in my head while scanning the building in real-time. Nothing seemed out of place.

6 exits – first floor.

4 restrooms – first floor.

3 generators – first floor.

2 fire escapes – second floor.

One main power source.

One control room.

One elevator.

This only included the wing I was housed in. There were more and I’d studied them all.

“Evening, Sir.”

Draping the neatly folded towel over his arm, the butler greeted me. Half-full flutes of champagne I wasn’t interested in sat on the silver tray, awaiting a dry mouth and willing participant.

“Champagne?”

I shook my head, stretching my palm in his direction.

“Perhaps something stronger?” he posed.

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