Page 7 of Assistant to the Assassin

There was a time I would have said yes. When we first started to work together, I found her joking, bubbly attitude annoying. I couldn’t wait until I could get rid of her. But then I found out what a hard worker she is, how dedicated and passionate she is about making the world better, even if you must break some rules to achieve that. From the beginning, she could always gauge my moods and figure out exactly what I needed. Only my mother has ever been able to do that.

When I asked her to come work for me, I never expected our relationship to go beyond professional. But over late-night dinners, watching several TV shows, and going to a whole lot of therapy, Beth became my friend. My only friend, really. I came to crave her smiles, her smartass comments, her compassion.

I came to crave her.

“No,” I reply softly. “I wouldn’t have you any other way.”

v

“How are you doing today, Henry?” asks my therapist, Kathleen Bennett. She’s sitting in a swivel chair in front of me, her hands clasped in her lap, a leg crossed over the other.

I’ve been seeing her for about six months at the recommendation of Beth. She thought talking to a professional would help me, because even though I’ve told her little about what keeps me up at night and sends me into random spirals during the day, she knew enough to push me to get help. As much as I dug my feet in the sand at first, I must admit she was right. I can be honest with Dr. Bennett in a way I can’t with anyone else, even Beth. Sometimes it’s nice to talk to someone impartial.

Dr. Bennett is a very calm and patient person, which I think suits me well. I am the exact opposite of those things; therefore, we work quite well together. She’s a bit younger than I am: thirty-three to my thirty-six. She usually dresses in workout attire—she likes to go for runs for God knows what reason. Her straight hair ends just below her ear, framing her round brown face perfectly.

She and I meet at her office once a week, and the office is about as bare as my apartment. Like me, she only has one picture on her wall, one of her wife and son. The picture rests just behind her head, and I tend to stare at it when our sessions become especially tense. Her family looks so happy, so at ease. I envy them that.

“I’m fine.” I’m leaning back against her blue office chair, with my hands resting on its arms. It’s pretty comfortable, but sometimes its suede cushions make a weird sound when I fidget, no doubt because of the suit I wear that’s made of the same material. It grates on my nerves.

She gives me a knowing look. “How have you been sleeping this week?”

“Better with those pills. I got five hours last night,” I tell her.

She smiles, liking this news. “Are you still updating your journal?”

“Every morning.”

She stares at me, waiting.

With a huff, I elaborate. “I write down the dreams I have each night, even if it’s not a nightmare, just like I’ve done for months. I’m not stopping just because I’m sleeping better.”

“How many nightmares did you have this week?” she asks, typing some notes into her computer.

“Four.”

Click click click. “Were these on four separate nights?”

“Two were, the other two happened the same night.”

She continues to type, nodding along. “Same dream each time?”

I shake my head. “The two separate ones were about the day my mom was taken. The night I had back-to-back nightmares, it was about the brothel. I woke up in the middle of the bloodshed, so I splashed cold water on my face and did my breathing exercises like you taught me, but when I went back to sleep, the dream picked up where it had left off.”

Dr. Bennett nods, once again nailing a sympathetic gaze that doesn’t come off as patronizing. “What about the other three days of the week?”

“I didn’t have dreams two of those nights, then last night I had a dream about Beth.”

She stares at me inquisitively for a moment, then says, “I’ve noticed a pattern, Henry. You never have a nightmare on Fridays, the day you and Beth have dinner together.”

I give her a noncommittal hum.

“You talk about Beth half of almost every session, she’s your only non-professional relationship, and your subconscious mind is at a more relaxed state after you’ve spent time with her. Do you think it’s possible you have feelings for Beth that go beyond friendship?”

The answer comes out of me with the ease of a wisdom tooth. “It doesn’t matter if I did. Nothing could happen between us.”

“Because of your job?”

I told Dr. Bennett what I did about a month into therapy. She actually reacted far better than I would have thought, but I did choose her because she specializes in helping military and law enforcement. I figured my best shot at not giving a therapist a heart attack would be a therapist like her. Our only rule is that I don’t give her specifics on future missions, because that’s when she’s legally obligated to go to the authorities.

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