Page 35 of Unethical

God, this lunch is turning into a mindfuck.

He must have picked up on my silent screaming because he sits up.

“Listen, doc,” he says, “I’m not trying to ruin your life. I’m trying to make mine better.”

“Can’t you see that I want the same thing for you?”

He shakes his head. “No, what you want is to check off some boxes, put me on meds, and make me into a mindless drone. You don’t care about who I am or what I’ve been through. You’re just like them.”

Now we’re getting somewhere. I have to keep him talking. “I’m just like who?”

“Anyone in the system who’s taken great pains to chew me up and spit me out. The foster parents. My actual fucking parents. The penal system. Yeah, I was probably born with a few screws loose, but everyone in my life has spent more time loosening them further than trying to tighten them up.”

The psychologist in me wants to spit out all the things we’re taught to say in this situation. You don’t have to remain a product of your environment. You can change your way of thinking. Yadda, yadda, yadda.

Instead, I say what feels right. “I’m sorry so many people have failed you.”

He pushes the tray of food away from him. “And people wonder why I’ve become a demon.”

“I don’t think you’re a demon,” I say, though I’m not sure I’m being completely honest. He’s pretty fucking evil.

“Yeah, you do. And that’s fine.” He stands and picks up his half-eaten meal. “Maybe this lunch thing was a bad idea.”

Having lunch with a client is definitely a bad idea, but I’m a glutton for punishment today. “Sit down and finish eating. You were the one who came up with this idea to begin with.”

“I just wanted more time with you so I could learn more about you. Sharing dirty details about myself isn’t part of that fantasy.”

As he walks toward the little row of plastic trash cans, I take a moment to really think about what I’m doing. I, a respected member of the psychology community, am fucking Maxim, a murderous felon who wouldn’t know a boundary if it landed onhis head. Not only am I fucking him, but I’m actually starting to like him.

And now I’m about to cross a line of my own.

When he returns to the table, I clear my throat. “Why don’t we walk around the mall a bit longer? I don’t have any plans, and you can take that time to ask me some things about myself.”

While I’ll gladly spill some of my own tea, I’ll only do so in exchange for some of his.

A smirk spreads on his face, and my stomach clenches. This would be easier if he wasn’t so goddamn attractive. “I have a better idea. Why don’t we head to a scenic spot I know?”

Against my better judgment, I nod and follow him out of the mall.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Maxim

She looks out of place in my beat-up vehicle, as if she’s a flowering tree growing tall in the middle of a garbage dump. Just beauty surrounded by trash and disease.

I drive her to a park I used to visit when I was younger. My foster parents lived a ten-minute walk from here. I’m not even sure if the house has been resurrected or if it remains a crumbling heap of old bones that are eternally haunted by the screams of their foster children.

“Where are we going?” Sarah asks, wringing out her hands in her lap. She picks at her slacks as she looks around.

Her anxiety is eating away at her. Just being around me eats away at her. But maybe underneath that outer layer is the Sarah that she needs to be. That she deserves to be.

“Trove Park,” I say. “I used to visit this place a lot when I was growing up.”

Her eyes brighten because I’ve just presented her with a tidbit of information without forcing her to wrestle it out of me. I wish I could give her more, but it’s not easy for me to talk aboutmy past. Bringing her here is a bigger step than she realizes. Or maybe she understands more than I give her credit for.

I pull into a spot at the very end of the parking lot. “I used to ride my rusty bike up here and put it right in that twisted hunk of metal they called a bike rack,” I say.

She peers through the windshield as if I’ve just told her we’re approaching the wreckage of the Titanic. It’s just an old bike rack to me, but to her, it’s a bridge to some inner sanctum I unknowingly revealed.

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