I study killers for a living.
The FBI calls me when they need someone to crawl inside a murderer's head. I've been profiling a contract killer they call "The Gentleman" for two years. Clean. Methodical. No evidence. No pattern. Except the ones I'm finding.
Last night I went to a bar. Met a man. Took him home.
Best sex of my life. He was precise. Controlled. Deliberate with his hands in a way that made me forget I have a PhD.
This morning the FBI called. Another Gentleman kill. Time of death: last night.
I looked at the man in my bed.
He smiled. "I made coffee."
Two weeks later, he walked into my office. Not the FBI office.
My therapy practice.
"I'd like to book a session. Weekly."
He sat on my couch. Crossed his legs. Smiled the same smile.
I should have said no.
I said Thursday at four.