Page 13 of For Fear

The receptionist sat behind a curved desk of gleaming white marble, her smile as polished as her surroundings. Everything about her screamed expensive efficiency, from her perfectly pressed blazer to the way her fingers hovered over her keyboard with practiced precision.

"Good afternoon," she greeted them, her voice smooth as silk but devoid of genuine warmth. "How may I assist you today?"

Morgan stepped forward, keeping her voice steady despite the urgency churning in her gut. "We need to see Dr. Reid."

"I'm afraid Dr. Reid is with patients all afternoon. Perhaps I could schedule you for—"

Morgan's badge caught the sunlight as she pulled it from her belt. "This isn't about scheduling."

The effect was immediate. The receptionist's professional facade cracked, her smile faltering as she took in the FBI credentials. A slight tremor ran through her manicured fingers as she reached for the phone, turning away to speak in hushed, urgent tones.

Derik leaned against the reception desk, his casual pose belied by the tension in his shoulders. His eyes never left Morgan, concern etching deeper lines around them. They both knew the risks they were taking, pushing this hard without more concrete evidence. But with two bodies already on the ground, procedure had to take a backseat to prevention.

The soft click of a door opening drew their attention. Dr. Clayton Reid emerged from the hallway, his white coat pristine and somehow untouched by the weight of the day. He moved with measured confidence, each step carefully placed, his entire bearing suggesting a man accustomed to being in complete control of his environment. Deep lines carved paths around his mouth and eyes, speaking of age and experience, but there was something unsettling about the calm that radiated from him – too perfect, too practiced.

"Can I help you?" His voice matched his appearance: smooth, professional, the kind that could make even the darkest truths sound palatable. Morgan forced herself to meet his steady gaze, reading the cool assessment in his return look. This wasn't some nervous therapist caught off guard; this was someone who had mastered the art of maintaining composure.

"Special Agents Cross and Greene," Morgan said, letting her own voice carry the weight of authority. "We need to talk."

Reid's expression didn't waver. "Of course. Please, come in." He gestured toward the hallway with a fluid movement that spoke of years of ushering troubled souls into his inner sanctum.

His office was larger than Morgan had expected, a study in calculated comfort. The minimalist design of the lobby carried through, but here it was softened by touches of burgundy in the thick carpet and leather chairs. Built-in shelves lined the walls, filled with psychology texts and medical journals, their spines creating a pattern of muted colors against the pale walls. A half-empty cup of coffee sat forgotten on the mahogany desk, next to a silver-framed photo showing a younger Reid alongside a woman and two smiling children – a carefully curated glimpse of humanity in this sterile space.

Morgan took one of the chairs facing his desk, noting how it was positioned slightly lower than Reid's own seat – another subtle play for dominance. Derik remained standing by the door, his back straight and arms crossed, a silent sentinel watching the scene unfold.

Reid settled into his chair with the ease of long practice, crossing his legs and leaning back slightly. He steepled his fingers beneath his chin, casting them both an evaluating gaze that spoke of years spent reading people's darkest secrets.

"I understand you're here on official business," he said, his voice softer now but still maintaining that professional edge that seemed to create distance even in close quarters.

"That's correct." Morgan unclipped her badge again, sliding it across the polished desk surface toward him. With deliberate calm, he picked it up, studied it briefly, then returned it to its place between them. The whole interaction felt choreographed, another move in whatever game he was playing.

"Let's get straight to it," Morgan began, leaning forward slightly to bridge the artificial chasm his furniture arrangementhad created. "We're investigating the deaths of Lila Sanchez and Simon Holt. I understand you were Simon's therapist."

A flicker of something – concern? Recognition? – crossed Reid's face before his professional mask slipped back into place. "Yes, Simon was a patient here."

"And Lila Sanchez?"

Reid held her gaze for a long moment, something calculating in his eyes. Finally, he nodded. "Yes, Lila was also under my care. She struggled with heroin addiction." His tone remained clinical, detached, as if he were discussing a case study rather than a human being who had once occupied the very chair Morgan sat in. "She possessed significant potential but failed to engage fully in her treatment."

The words hit Morgan like a physical blow, anger flaring hot in her chest. "Failed?" she echoed, the word bitter on her tongue. "That's a rather cold way to describe someone who ended up dead, don't you think?"

Reid didn't flinch at her tone. "Addiction is a complex beast, Agent Cross. It's not merely about willpower or desire. Lila had numerous opportunities for recovery, but ultimately, she chose the path that led to her current situation."

Morgan could hear Lila's mother's voice in her head, trembling as she described her daughter's gift for music, the way she could make a violin sing like it had a soul. All those dreams reduced to clinical failure in this man's sterile assessment.

"Did you ever sense anything unusual?" Morgan pressed, searching for cracks in his composed facade. "Any signs that either of them were in danger?"

"Every patient carries their own demons," he replied, his tone as emotionless as a weather report. "In addiction treatment, risk is always present."

Morgan felt the frustration building in her chest, pressing against her ribs like a physical force. She wanted to shake him, tocrack open that professional veneer and get to whatever truth he was hiding behind it.

"Tell me about Simon Holt," she said, changing tacks. "What exactly happened to him?"

Something shifted in Reid's expression – a momentary break in his perfect composure that vanished almost as quickly as it appeared. "Simon was... brilliant. A mathematician of rare talent. But his gambling addiction..." He paused, choosing his words with visible care. "It consumed him. Led to a scandal that destroyed his career."

"Destroyed?" Morgan's instincts prickled at his word choice. "How exactly?"

"He falsified research data to cover gambling debts," Reid explained, his voice taking on a harder edge. "When it came to light, his reputation was ruined. His potential... wasted."

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