Page 3 of The Girl and the Cobra

My dad leans over, watching me get out before he says, “I’ll pick you up in an hour.”

“Okay,” I say with a sigh, and then, because I know he won’t be the first to leave, I turn away from the car and head to the front door of the impressive mansion. Dad won’t leave until he sees me enter the house.

I reach for the doorknob, not knowing if I should ring the bell or not. Hmm. I know this place is this guy’s house, but it’s also his place of business, so shouldn’t I be able to just walk inside? Guess I’ll put that to the test.

The doorknob turns easily, letting me inside. I toss one last glance over my shoulder and wave at my dad before I step inside.

The door shuts behind me, and I look around at the entryway I just walked into. High ceilings, tall windows with lots of natural light—although that light is dull thanks to the ever-dreary sky that hangs over this place. The entryway leads down into a hall with arches on both sides, effectively splitting the house and eventually leading to a stairwell that takes you up to the second floor.

As I look around and wonder just how expensive these sessions are going to be, a man walks out of one of the closest rooms. He wears black-rimmed glasses and a neatly-fitted black suit with dark blue accents. When he spots me, a tight smileappears on his face, and he approaches me and offers me his hand.

“You must be Mabel Altier,” he says, everything about him—from his clothes to the way he moves—totally refined. Behind his glasses, his eyes shine a bright green. With a thick head of black hair on his head—also immaculately kept, not a single hair out of place—he’s not what I expected.

“Yeah,” I say, slowly offering my hand to him even though I don’t really want to shake it.

His hand encloses around mine. “You may call me Dr. Wolf, or just Wolf, if you prefer. Whatever you like.” He’s not as old as I assumed he’d be, either. He’s pretty young for someone so distinguished; the way my dad talked about him, it made him sound like he’s been around forever. I’d put him late thirties, maybe forty at the most.

Not bad looking, too, although there is something about him I can’t put my finger on, something that makes my walls go up… but maybe that’s just the fact that I’m being forced to lay my soul bare to him and he’s a stranger to me. Yeah, that’s probably it.

“Come.” He turns and takes a single step away before his phone rings, and I watch his shoulders go up and down once as he heaves a sigh, as if he detests the device in his pocket. He pulls it out and glances at the screen, and then he looks back at me. “I’m afraid I must take this. Please, take a seat in my office. I’ll be with you shortly.”

I watch as Dr. Wolf disappears into a nearby room and shuts the door to give himself more privacy. I wait a moment, and then I move toward the room he came out of originally. One quick look inside tells me it’s his office.

Two chairs side by side, a small table in between them with a tissue box. There’s also one of those chaise lounge things in there, all fresh, unblemished leather. The walls are plain and painted in the most boring shade of tan I’ve ever seen.

Honestly, it looks like hell.

I don’t want to go in there. Even though I know I’ll have to, it’s the last thing I want to do. The only reason I don’t duck my head and enter the office is the fact that Dr. Wolf isn’t right behind me.

Taking a step back, I glance down the hall, deeper in the large house. A thought comes to me: does he live here alone? It seems like an awfully big house for one man to call his, like most rooms in this place go to waste.

Curiosity gets the better of me, so instead of heading into the office like I’m supposed to, I turn to walk down the hall. I pass other open rooms; I see a library of sorts, along with a sitting room full of nice furniture that looks like it hasn’t been touched in years.

Nobody needs a house this big, even if you take clients like Dr. Wolf. It’s just a big waste of space.

I make it to the stairwell. Of course I shouldn’t go up there; whatever’s up there is none of my business—and normally I wouldn’t entertain something like this. I’m not someone who does things she’s not supposed to. I never want to disappoint anyone.

A lifetime of doing what I was supposed to, and look at where it got me. Here, with memories that haunt me and regret that chokes me. I was never rewarded for being a good girl, for doing what I was told, so why not take a quick gander around Dr. Wolf’s house?

I go up the stairs one at a time, my palms clammy and my nerves practically shaking inside me.

A new city. A new start. A new me.

I walk up the steps with purpose, though I don’t know what purpose that is, and I make it to the top when I have a choice: continue up to the third floor or wander on the second and seewhat there is to see. I figure explaining away my wandering might be easier if I stick to the second floor, so that’s what I do.

I walk down the hall, passing numerous rooms containing beds and dressers. The bedrooms are uniform, all exactly alike. It almost looks like a wing of a hospital, except it doesn’t have that hospital smell. And again, unlike hospitals, who always are packed to the brim, these rooms aren’t being used.

I’m seconds from giving up my investigation on this floor—seems like every single room I pass is identical to the one before it—but right when I’m about to stop and turn around, I pass a room that’s occupied. My feet halt, and I can’t help it; I turn and face the person in the room.

A man. A man sits, hunched over on the bed, staring at his arm. His back is to me, so I can’t see much. Head bent, shoulders down. He looks to be a pretty big guy; tall and muscular, with a thick head of brown hair that’s perhaps an inch or so too long. He wears all black—including a band around his neck.

I can’t see his face or what he’s looking at on his forearm, but the long sleeve on that arm is pulled up to his elbow, and unless I’m mistaken, I’m pretty sure I see a ton of scars.

And not scars from fights or anything like that. No, the scars I see are too clean to belong to anything that happened naturally. They’re thin, precise, the kind of scars someone might get after they take a blade to their own skin and cut deep.

Who is he? Why is he here, in one of the bedrooms on the second floor of Dr. Wolf’s house? Does he live here? Is he… is he another patient? All other thoughts in my head disappear, vanishing as thoughts of this stranger take their place.

I don’t know how long it is or if I make a sound, but eventually the man stops looking at his arm and slowly turns his head to glance over his shoulder at me. All I see is a sliver of his face, and I’m pretty sure the skin on his face is marked with scars of a similar nature, too.

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