She releases a lengthy breath. “You’re intelligent, Grayson. You’ve probably memorized every disorder in the book, but you’re hardly qualified.”
“And you don’t trust me,” I clarify for her. “Not with your mind.”
She shrugs. “One could argue it’s not so much distrust in you, rather than the fact that I manipulated my own patients, resulting in my distrust of everyone.”
“That’s a start.” I nod again to her chair.
“We don’t have time for this.” She rubs at her forehead.
“If it’s affecting you, we make time.”
Seconds pass where she considers her options, then she brings the chair up to the yellow line. I’m not shackled, nor am I a physical danger to her. She’s mentally distancing herself from me in her safe zone.
“Tell me about Lydia.” It’s the easiest place to start.
Her gaze settles on me. “Lydia would never betray her patients.”
&nb
sp; I smile slightly, urging her on.
“Lydia would never forget her parents. She would never lie to the authorities, or aid and abet a criminal. Especially a killer.” A beat. “Lydia would never be aroused right now.”
Her words bridge the expanse between us and grip me. I dig my fingers into the armrest, maintaining control. London is the master when it comes to psychological warfare. She knows how to distract me, but I’m not her doctor.
I’m her conduit.
“What would Lydia do?” I prompt.
She huffs a derisive breath. “That, I don’t know.”
“When thoughts of Lydia arise, how do you feel?”
“Distanced. Outside myself. I believe I’m experiencing a mild form of depersonalization induced by high-anxiety.” She clings to the thread in her hand. “Some form of disassociation.”
“How do you deal with anxiety?”
Her breath stutters. “I immerse myself in work. In my patients.”
“A distraction?”
She shakes her head. “No…a form of therapy. A way to retain control.” Her string is wound so tightly around her finger the tip turns white.
I scrutinize her, letting my gaze travel leisurely over her demurely crossed ankles, her legs, body. She’s tense; able to feel my perusal like an invasive touch. “Who feels more out of control?” I ask. “Lydia or London?”
Her eyes meet mine. “Right now, Lydia. She wouldn’t open herself up like this.”
“Not to me,” I complete her thought. I sit back, run my hand over my forearm, drawing her attention to the ink and scars. I even allow my accent to bleed through. “How do I make Lydia feel?”
“Grayson…” She touches her forehead again to create a barrier. “I know what you’re trying to do.”
“Answer.”
Her gaze locks on to mine. “If I never became the person I became, then I’d feel intimidated. Scared. Anxious. But more than anything…curious.”
A smile slants my mouth. “I do make good girls curious. It’s the lure. That indefinable characteristic we both have. What attracts prey to predator.”
Her breathing intensifies. “Lydia would only be prey to you.”