Page 83 of Never Trust the Living (Battle Crows MC 7)

“I’m here because I was forced to be here. Apparently, I’m a ‘danger to society,’” Terry snapped.

Okay, so talking to him softly probably wasn’t going to work.

It only seemed as if I was making him angrier.

“Can you tell me what happened to make you so angry today?” I asked. “Or are you upset with Dutch and me for having to perform this assessment?”

On and on we talked, and the more I learned about the man, the angrier he became at the knowledge that I now held about him.

By the end of the session, I was honestly scared he might hurt me.

Luckily, the delivery man arrived with our lunch, and Dutch knocked softly on my office door.

“Lunch, Mrs. Crow,” Dutch said. “Are you about finished?”

Yes, yes I was.

“Yes,” I answered quickly. “I am. Terry, thank you for your visit.”

There, that was neutral, and not freaked out sounding, right?

Terry got up and stormed out of the room, narrowly missing clocking Dutch with his shoulder as he rushed past her.

“So it is my professional opinion that that man has more issues than all of our patients combined,” I said honestly. “It would probably be best for the DA to check the man out. He’s hiding a lot of things, and his anger issues with women mean he probably shouldn’t have a woman therapist unless she’s got a bodyguard of some sort.”

Dutch winced. “You’re saying he made you nervous? The DA didn’t think he was dangerous, or I would’ve never asked you to work with him. I’m so sorry.”

I waved it away. “I knew what I was getting into when I went into this profession. Usually, it’s a little kid throwing the punches, though. Not an adult.”

Dutch sighed and gestured for me to follow her, which I did.

We came out of my office in time to see the delivery driver there leaning against the wall by our door.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Did I forget to get something?” Dutch asked the driver.

The man had ‘Uber Eats’ on his shirt, and he had an empty bag that was likely what he’d carried our food inside in his hand.

“No.” He looked around. “What do y’all do here?”

There was something so familiar about the man that it made the tiny little hairs on my arms stand on end.

“We’re therapists,” Dutch answered. “I appreciate you bringing our food, but we’re going to lock up now.”

Dutch’s nice way to say, ‘get the fuck out.’

The man smirked. “No problem. I was just waiting for my ride to get back. Have a good one.”

We both watched him leave, and then locked the door behind him once he was far enough away not to hear the click of the lock.

When Dutch turned to me after engaging the lock in place, she said, “That was really weird.”

“Agreed.” I felt a weird pitching in my stomach that had nothing to do with being pregnant, and everything to do with the discomfort the man had caused by his presence.

“He was walking out of the door as I left. I had no clue he was going to stay.” She shivered.

Jokingly, I walked to the desk with the food on it and said, “He momentarily distracted me from my patient leaving, though. So there’s that.” I paused. “You should change the man’s tip.”

She laughed and picked up her phone. “I’ll knock a dollar off for his creepiness.”

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