Page 110 of Due Diligence

“So you remember everything,” he reiterated after a few minutes. “Every word I’ve said to you. Every time you’ve looked at me. Every time we’ve kissed. You can remember in detail.”

“I can.”

“Cass,” he murmured as his hand came up to tuck a lock of hair behind my ear. “You’re amazing.”

“Don’t,” I warned, loathing the way my stomach tightened involuntarily when I replayed his words again in my head. And again. “Don’t say that. Ihatethat.”

“What?”

“I hate when people compliment this. I hate when people tell me I’m amazing and special because of this fucking thing.” I shook my head and I kept shaking it, wishing that some of the memories would just fall out. “This has caused me so much grief and has screwed with my head over the years. I can’t have you doing that.”

Marcus’s lips parted like he wanted to say something, but he quickly pulled it back. He placed his hand on my shoulder and rubbed it, his palm warm against my skin. He surveyed me before he respired heavily. “You must hear so much noise all day, every day,” he finally said.

We could leave it at that. He didn’t need to know how right he was—that my brain could be this unceasing, untamable parade of colors and sounds and images. Some if it was salient; other parts were useless and mundane. But all of it was there.

“I won’t compliment that again, Cass. I promise. I know it probably kills you to have people constantly tell you what you are and how great that is, without ever realizing the cost of it.”

As he was speaking, I knew he was speaking from empathy—from a shared understanding of the pressure to fit the mold of expectations. Once that connection became apparent to me, it took me a few seconds to realize a tear had welled in the corner of my eye. Before I could reach up to wipe it away, he did it for me. He ran his thumb under my eyeline and caught the tear, brushing it off my skin before it moved down my cheek.

I added that to the list of things his thumb had done—parted my lips and wiped my tears.

“This is why you hate hearing compliments,” he realized after a few more seconds.

“It’s also why I watch the same horror movies over and over again. It’s easier if I don’t add more to the mix.”

He put a hand on my cheek and nudged me to look at him. His eyes homed in on mine and he held my gaze. “Look, I’ve said this before and you had a…how shall I put this…adversereaction to it: You need a therapist.”

If he hadn’t just delivered a masterclass in male empathy, I would have rolled my eyes at him. “First of all, again, fuck you.”

“Happily—if you’re ready for a quick one. But bear in mind, I do have work soon.”

I forced myself not to smile at his joke, even though I really did want to. Instead, I shook his hand from my cheek. “And secondly, I wouldloveto go to therapy. But I can’t.”

“You can. Everyone can—and should.”

“No. Here’s what happens: You go online and Google ‘good therapists near my office,’ and you end up with, like, ten thousand results. Then you start reading reviews and people only review when they’re unhappy—and of course, the reviews aren’t representative because nobody likes to talk about needing therapy. So then you’re reading these depressingly bleak reviews about therapists who have let people down, so you start feeling even worse. And maybe,maybeyou find someone who looks good, so you think about contacting them, butof coursethey’re not covered by insurance. So then you start fretting about money. And then you get over the cost of it and you decide to just go for it, but there’s no way to request an appointment online. You have tocallthem. Sothenyou remember you’re a twenty-eight-year-old woman, which means you’re from a generation of people who will stop at literally nothing to avoid speaking on the phone. That means you have to get ready, right? You have to practice. So you write out everything you want to say when yourequest this appointment, and you start to really get into your feelings. And then you muster up the nerve to call,finally, and then you realize they only take calls from eight in the morning to four in the afternoon—precisely when you’re at work and precisely when you can’t just call for a therapist. So then you go to the private accessible bathroom and try to make a call, only to get a voicemail. A fucking voicemail. And then, you hang up because you didn’t practice leaving a message, and by the end of this whole experience you don’t have a therapist and you actually feel even worse.”

When I finished speaking, I was literally out of breath and my heart rate was skyrocketing. Marcus was staring at me with his fist in front of his mouth and both eyebrows raised. After a pregnant pause, he inhaled slowly and exhaled in a focused, measured push. His expression softened.

“Do you need a hug?” he asked.

“I really do,” I responded, just as I flung myself into him.

Marcus wrapped his arms around me, encompassing me. He kissed the top of my head and said, “I can refer you to my therapist if you want.”

“There’s no way you and I should share a therapist.”

“You’re probably right.” He ran his hands over my hair. “Look, I don’t know what to say or how to be helpful—yet. But I will. Before then, I just want to thank you for sharing with me. I know you don’t share much, so it means a lot to me.”

There it was—that sweet Marcus Fitz unicorn charm.

“You’re too freaking good to be true, you know that? Can you just say something annoying so I don’t have to feel so grateful to have you?”

“Of course. I got you.” Marcus released me from the hug and looked me right in the eyes. “Just so you know, between you being a prodigy and a savant, and you being a serial killer…I probably would have put my money on serial killer.”

I couldn’t hold back a laugh. “Perfect,” I told him as I kissed him, smothering his lips with them. “That was perfect.”

Chapter 30: Marcus

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