Page 3 of Tricked By Jack
“I see,” she says, voice perfectly modulated. “And who was Valentine Grant to your sister?”
“You tell me.” I hold her gaze steadily, all pretense of the broken brother momentarily set aside. “He was your patient, wasn’t he?”
Eve’s face gives nothing away, but her knuckles whiten slightly around her pen. “I can’t discuss any other patients, real or hypothetical. That would be a breach of confidentiality.”
“Even when one patient murdered another?” The words come out sharper than I intended, but I don’t try to soften them.
Something flicks in her eyes when she looks at me. “Valentine didn’t kill your sister,” she states calmly.
I clench my jaw, trying not to react to her words. But it’s a losing battle because she’s right. I fucking killed Ruby. “Careful, Eve,” I growl. “Just because he didn’t end her life doesn’t mean he’s not responsible. It was his interference that led to the outcome we now all have to live with.”
“I understand you’re looking for answers. For someone to blame. That’s normal after suffering a traumatic loss.” She talks like she’s trying to soothe me. “But I can’t discuss other individuals who may or may not have been under my care.”
The way she says it piques my attention, and I take in her entire body, looking for more tells. Her nostrils flare slightly, and she rolls her shoulders back. Both movements are subtle, making me wonder if she even knows she’s doing it.
Whether she knows or not is inconsequential. I saw it, and I’m cataloging it in my mind. The way she’s acting is like she’s… protecting something. Or possibly someone. Ah fuck me, is she another of Valentine’s conquests? It would explain her composure.
Any decent human being would react at the mention of a murderer they’d treated, protected under the guise of confidentiality. But instead of showing cracks, guilt, or even horror in her professional veneer, Eve Mortis just sits there—completely unmoved, hiding behind ethics while my sister rots in the ground.
“Jack.” She leans forward slightly, locking her gray gaze on my green one. “I’m here to help you process your loss. To find healthy ways to cope. Not to speculate about circumstances that neither of us can change.”
I look down at my hands, forcing myself to act like she’s successfully chastised me. Inhaling deeply, I hold my breath and mentally count to ten before exhaling audibly. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I just…” Trailing off, I let out a carefully measured sigh. “I keep thinking if someone had noticed sooner, if someone had said something…” I trail off, leaving the accusation hanging in the air between us.
“Blame is a natural response to loss,” Eve says, clinical and precise. “But it rarely brings the peace we’re seeking.”
She thinks I want peace, but what I really want is a goddamn reckoning. “I should go,” I say, standing abruptly. “This was a mistake. I’m not ready for this.” I gesture vaguely at the space between us.
Eve stands as well, maintaining the perfect professional distance. “Grief has its own timeline. There’s no rush. When you’re ready to focus on your healing, my door is open.”
Healing. As if words could ever stitch together the hole Ruby’s absence has torn through my world.
“Thank you for your time,” I say, summoning a fragile smile. I step toward the door, then pause, turning back to her with a carefully crafted vulnerability in my eyes. “I’m sorry for being difficult. It’s just hard. Harder than I expected.”
Something in her expression softens fractionally—not empathy, but a professional recognition of pain. She steps closer, offering her hand. “It’s understandable. Emotions are never simple, especially not the strong ones.”
I take her hand, but instead of shaking it, I lean in and press a quick, dry kiss to her cheek. I feel her stiffen in surprise, her skin cool beneath my lips.
“My sister would have liked you,” I murmur, the lie bitter on my tongue.
I pull back to see confusion flicker across her face before her professional mask slides back into place. Good. Let her feel unsettled. Let her remember the press of my lips against her skin. A fucking Judas kiss.
As I walk back through the waiting room, I only stop long enough to pay Naya. She’s now sitting next to an absurdly large bouquet of red roses. They look like the kind of bouquet desperate men buy to either say sorry or lay claim.
It’s not my fucking problem which one fits. Now that I’ve seen everything I needed to see, I leave. Eve Mortis wasn’t shocked by the accusation of her former patient committing murder, or even the mention of his serial killer persona.
That can only mean one thing, she already knew. And maybe, just maybe, she’s used to being around people like that. My thoughts circle around this as I get into my car and drive the short way to the cemetery.
The cemetery is silent as the sun begins its descent, painting long shadows across the marble façades of family mausoleums. I drive past the main entrance where mourners gather, taking instead the service road that curves behind the hill.
TheKnight family crypt stands imposing—generations of power and secrets sealed in stone. I don’t stop. Ruby isn’t there, not really. Nick insisted on entombing her with the rest of the family, tradition demanding she be locked away in the dark.
But I know our sister. Since her marriage to Michael, there’s no way she’d want to be caged again. She deserved something else—something I alone provided.
I park near the eastern edge of the cemetery where the manicured lawns give way to wilder ground. The groundskeeper nods as I pass—I’ve paid him enough to ensure both his silence and his service. The path I follow isn’t marked, but my feet know the way, crushing the frost covered grass that sounds like whispered confessions beneath my shoes.
Three days after the official funeral, I bought this plot under a different name. A small, private space beneath an old oak tree where the stars are visible at night. Where Ruby can have what was stolen from her in life—freedom.
The headstone is simple black granite, her name and dates carved in elegant script. No epitaphs. No Bible verses. Just Ruby Knight—not Simmons—as unadorned and honest as she never got to be.
