Page 40 of The Girl and the Cobra

“I know all about patient confidentiality,” I hiss out the word. “But you’re not a real therapist.”

His dark eyebrows lift. “I’m not? Strange. I must have imagined all those years of schooling—” Wolf is trying to be funny in a dry, deadpanned way, but I’m not having it. My hands clench into fists at my sides, which he notices. “Angry on Mabel’s behalf, are you? Interesting. Am I going to have to use that collar again? It has been a while. Maybe you’ve forgotten just how quickly it can drop you to the ground.”

Wolf keeps me chained like a dog; it’s not something I ever forget. Still, I can’t let this go. “You didn’t bring her here to help her. You said it yourself. You brought her here for me, so why don’t you cut the shit and tell me what you said to her?”

Wolf motions to the chair I call home when I’m in the middle of a session with him. “Sit.”

As the gears grind in my head, I go to sit. I sit and I seethe.

He stands, sets down his notepad and pen, and gives me his back as he goes toward the desk in the far corner, away from the windows. He reaches into his pocket and kneels down behind it, like he’s getting something out of a drawer that he keeps locked. Whatever it is, it doesn’t interest me. Only Mabel does.

Wolf says nothing, but he must find what he’s searching for, because soon enough he returns to me and sets something down on the small table next to my chair. He takes his seat and watches me all the while.

“I believe that’s yours,” he says, gesturing to the object he placed near me.

I saw what it was the moment he strolled over, and I can’t fight the uneasy feeling in my gut. I almost don’t want to look at it, but at the same time, resisting its lure is impossible. My fingers flex, clammy all of a sudden.

“Pick it up,” Wolf instructs.

I don’t want to. If I don’t touch it, it remains where it is, unburdening. But if I do as he says and pick it up, everything I’ve tried to move on from might come crashing back.

“You know I’m aware of everything that goes on in this house. I know you and Mabel have gotten… close. Pick it up. Show me you can look at yourself without spiraling. Prove to me you are more than that hideous mask.”

Hideous? I’m insulted. Personally, I thought it was a pretty cool mask: unnerving, a little creepy, and intimidating all the way. The mask served its purpose for five whole years.

I reach for it. The mask is heavier than I remember, but just as cold. On its metal face is an etched cobra, with nothing more than eyeholes and two tiny nose holes. It shows nothing on your face; it was the reason I could hide in plain sight—although I always did suspect Atticus knew who I was.

I had a whole outfit. Black leather gloves, straps that went all over, as many knives as I could fit on me. I was one with the shadows, a serpent in disguise. I was the Cobra.

I am the Cobra.

“You wore that mask at first to move on from what you did, but you never really believed that lie. You cut yourself time and time again, etching Shay’s name into your forearm as a punishment.”

My fury over whatever Wolf told Mabel is overshadowed by the mask in my hands. I can think of nothing else as I stare down at it. The obsession that carved my soul as easily as my knives dug into my flesh, the shock over seeing Shay again… the feelings that rose up as a result.

This mask and what it stands for is everything wrong with me, but I’d be lying if I claimed to be past it. How can you ever move on from your past when it’s written in your flesh? How can you ignore everything that helped shape you?

“Mabel has seen the scars and knows you’re a killer, but she doesn’t know why,” Wolf remarks. “She doesn’t know that that mask is who you really are.”

I glare at Wolf. “Did you—”

“Tell her? No, I did not. What do you think would happen if she finds out?”

My eyes fall to the mask. It’s strange how it’s been so long since I’ve seen it; it makes it feel foreign even though I have every bit of it committed to memory. Muscle memory makes me want to put it on. It takes quite the mental load to keep it in my hands.

As I run my thumb over the mouth area, I mumble, “Fuck off. She’d tell me to fuck off. What else could she say? What I did, why I did it… a normal person could never understand. Yes, she might have some issues of her own, but they’re nothing like mine. She wasn’t in love with her brother.”

“And if she were to tell you to, in your words, fuck off, how would you react?”

The only thing I can do is sigh and look away from the mask.

“Would you let her go, knowing she hates you or even finds you disgusting for it, or would you lash out at her? After all, as someone who grew up as a hitman, you know countless ways to kill someone, how to make things look like an accident. You don’t need knives or a gun. All you’d need is your hands. You are a walking, talking weapon.”

If I told her the full truth and she didn’t react well—because who in their right mind would—would I let her go… or would I kill her?

I already know the answer, and it’s why I tell Wolf as I set the mask aside, “I would never hurt her.”

“And what about Shay? I’m certain you used to say the same about Shay, but in doing what you did, you hurt her in more ways than one.”

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