“You’re here to talk about your friend.” She sits down at her desk, crossing her legs and resting her interlaced fingers across her stomach. The posture immediately makes me angry. Prison counselor pose.

“I’m here to talk about you,” I correct her. I stand by the window, walking right past the chair set up in front of Newan’s desk. If she cares, she doesn’t show it.

“What do you want to know?”

“Are you in this for the money or do you really want to help people?”

She shrugs. “I want both. I have bills I need to pay just like everyone else. But I get to make the money I need to do that by assisting people with their reintegration into society, helping them isolate the problem areas in their lives and teaching them how to make positive changes.”

I hold up my hand—I’ve heard enough head doctor bullshit to last me a lifetime. It sounds like she’s reading from a script. The only reason I haven’t walked out already is because of the first part. She admitted to wanting the money.

“Have you ever had a patient confess criminal activity to you?” I demand.

“Yes.”

“And what actions did you take?”

“The appropriate ones.”

She called the cops. That won’t work. I don’t really know for a certainty what’s gone on in Lacey’s past, but I get the distinct impression that she did something crazy just before she showed up on my doorstep. And it probably wasn’t legal. “What would it take for you to accept Lacey off the books? To keep everything confidential, no matter what she tells you?”

Pippa assesses me, thinking. “I’m a doctor, Mr. Mayfair. I took an oath just like Sloane did. We are both bound by that oath to help people, so under these extreme circumstances I would be willing to help your friend without creating a file on her. I am, however, also bound by the law. If your friend confesses that she has caused or intends to cause harm to another person, then I can’t turn a blind eye to that.”

“So your Hippocratic oath will force you to help her, but your sense of civic duty will overrule that and ruin her anyway.”

She fixes steel-colored eyes on me. Cool and collected. “That’s how these things often go.”

“And no amount of money will change your mind on that?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Mayfair.”

“Then I guess we’re done here.” Waste of fucking time. I shouldn’t have bothered. I hustle for the exit, not willing to expend any further breath on the dead-end conversation. There are a million corrupt psychologists, doctors, police officers out there. I’ll just have to bribe one of them instead.

“Mr. Mayfair?” Newan is still sitting at her desk. She hasn’t flinched. “Against my better judgment, there is one reason that might persuade me to look the other way should your friend admit to something that might normally end in jail time.”

“Oh yeah? And what would that be?”

She looks at me blankly, but I can see the worry in her eyes. That part is too difficult to hide. “You can stay away from my friend. Permanently. You can stay away from Sloane.”

Well, well, well. Conniving bitch. I definitely don’t like her now. “And if she doesn’t want me to?”

Pippa looks out of the window, over the park, purveyor of her safe little kingdom. “Then I suppose if she wants to see you, I can’t stop her. But then these sessions you need from me? You’ll be paying me double—one for your friend and one for you, too. I don’t want a mentally unstable man anywhere near Sloane.”

Me and ultimatums? Yeah, we don’t mix. Give me two options and tell me I need to pick between them and I’ll find a third just to throw up a middle finger. Sloane’s friend has thrown me a curveball, though. Try as I might, I can’t seem to find a fucking third option here. Newan wants me to stay away from her friend, which I can’t do. And so the alternative would be to go to fucking therapy sessions with her myself. Which I can’t do.

The old me would have just said screw it and I’d have told her I’d stay away from Sloane, fully intending on seeing her anyway, but if I do that and the shrink finds out, then it’s Lacey paying the price, not me. The girl needs help. The girl needs help more than I need Sloane Romera in my life.

At least that’s what I’m telling myself.

Who the hell does this woman think she is, anyway? I’m so fucking mad at her. Normally I’d solve this problem by planting my fist firmly into the face of the person responsible for making me see red like this. But I can’t. Because she’s a smug, in an I-have-a-PhD-in-psychology-and-you’re-one-hundred-different-kinds-of-fucked-up kind of way. She’s manipulating Sloane’s life in a really calculating manner. Bitch is probably jealous that her friend is getting some or something. I laugh: yeah, that’s highly unlikely. The woman oozed her own brand of sexuality that declared she didn’t have problems getting it when she wanted it. She’s probably just looking out for her friend, but I’ll do anything to justify avoiding her request.

I drive the Camaro across the city, headed for Charlie’s mansion at the other end of the peninsula to Hunt’s Point. This is one of the most salubrious areas in Seattle. Bankers, golf pros, business owners, all respectable types, live here. They wave at Charlie when they’re walking their dogs, mowing the lawn, smile at him as he drives his Lexus down the leafy, suburban streets. They have no idea that he’s a fucking serial killer. He’s lived there for twenty-five years and the place is sacred to him. He definitely doesn’t shit where he eats, and he sure as hell doesn’t appreciate when his boys trail their shit to his doorstep on their shoes either. That basically means no dealing, no weapons, no grudges and no shop talk when you step foot through his front door. Follow those rules and the man will treat you like a king. Break them and he’ll make you wish you’d never been fucking born.