Page 104 of The House Beyond the Dunes

I trail a finger over one of the two chairs that angle toward each other in front of his desk. I cross toward a collection of framed diplomas and certificates on the wall. No denying the guy is educated, if all these framed diplomas can be believed.

“I’ve always been on the fence about displaying those,” he says. “Feels like I’m bragging, but many folks want to see proof of my education.”

“You must be pretty smart.” I face him and summon a mild smile.

He slides his hands into his pockets. “I hold my own.”

“What does it take to earn a PhD in psychology?” Do you have to be a little crazy to get one?

“Our time today isn’t about me. It’s about you.” He motions toward one of the chairs and then closes his office door. “Would you like to have a seat?”

I rub palms over my thighs. We’re alone. I’ve walked into the lion’s den, but I’ve no plans. He’s certainly not going to drop to his knees and bare his soul. “Is that how this works? I’ve never done anything like this before.”

“I don’t want you to be intimidated. All we do is sit and talk.” His voice is soothing and soft, whereas in the bar his vibe is aloof and a little dangerous. The two faces of Kyle Iverson.

“About me?” I ask.

“About whatever you want to talk about.” He motions to the chair again, and when I finally sit, he moves to the other side of the desk. I’m grateful for the distance and the barrier between us.

“Nice beach house,” I say.

“Thanks.”

“It yours?”

“Yes. It’s located on the northern Outer Banks near the Virginia line.”

A knot forms in my belly. I remember that long ago bumpy, hot ride up the beach in a truck’s back seat. My hands were tied behind my back, and one of my captors kept his hand on the back of my neck. When he finally pulled me up, I was surprised by the utter darkness and desolation. If not for the crashing waves, I’d have sworn I’d been dragged into a crater.

“Pretty secluded up there.” My voice has an eerie calm.

He’s watching me closely. “That’s its appeal.”

I force myself to relax my shoulders and melt into the chair. There’s a notepad and pencil on his desk, but he doesn’t reach for it. “What do we do now?”

“We talk,” he says.

“About me?”

“This session is for you, Stevie.” He appears to be in no rush. “What do you want to talk about?”

I glance toward the air vent behind him and see a small red light. Of course. He’s recording me.

I smile. “I don’t know what to say.”

His body is relaxed, but I sense he’s keenly aware of me. “You reached out to me. There must be something.”

I cross, uncross, and then recross my legs. I don’t speak for nearly a minute as I stare at him. He’s not someone I can trust. I know this in my bones. But I need to create the impression I’m willing to accept therapy.

“I’ve been feeling really lost,” I say.

“Okay. Tell me about that.”

I draw in a breath, angle my head from side to side. That beach house would be the place to hide someone. “I’ve had some issues with drugs and booze,” I say honestly. “But I’ve been working a program for several months. Ninety-six days to be exact.”

“That’s a terrific accomplishment.”

I draw in a shaky breath. “Feels pretty fragile right now.”

---