‘Has he tried to speak to you?’ Martin asked, tapping his pen against his bottom lip. Over the past three months – and countless sessions – Adam had noticed Martin do this often.
‘Not that I know of.’ Adam couldn’t work out if that was a half-truth or a lie. At the end of the day they were both the same thing – he of all people should know that. Lies were never white, they were dark and sharp and cut people like a knife.
‘I really think it would be good for the two of you to meet again.’ Martin’s voice was earnest. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his woollen trousers, the pen still grasped in his hand. ‘You’ve not spoken to him for so long, you’ve built him up in your mind to be some kind of demon. If you talk to him, you’ll realise he’s as human as you or me.’
Adam shook his head. ‘Not gonna happen.’
‘You sound very sure about that. Why do you think that is?’
Adam shifted his head to the side, trying to work Martin out. If you looked at it from a distance, the two of them had a lot in common. They both made money by coaxing out the truth, especially from unwilling mouths. Or at least they did, until Adam had messed it all up. Now he got by on the remains of his savings and his trust fund – supplementing it with income from his handmade furniture when he felt like it.
‘Because Everett’s an asshole.’
The briefest flash of a smile curved on Martin’s lips. ‘According to you he’s been an asshole for all your life, and yet you were willing to spend time with him before. I want you to think about what’s different right now. What you’re trying to avoid thinking about by avoiding your brother.’
‘OK.’
There was a silence for a moment, and Adam waited for Martin to break it. Instead the therapist stared at him until the pause became uncomfortable, enough to make Adam shift in his seat, and rub the back of his neck once again.
Damn, he knew these techniques. He could have written them all. He’d used them on businessmen and world leaders and military personnel who tried to bluff their way through his documentaries. And yet when they were used on him, he felt as awkward as hell.
He wasn’t going to fill the silence in.
He wasn’t.
Goddamn it. ‘I don’t want to see him, because every time I do I want to rip his fucking head off.’
Martin nodded slowly, showing no elation at his technique having worked. ‘OK. And do you think it’s a valid reaction to seeing him?’
‘Yes, I do.’ Adam could feel the blood starting to rush through his veins, hot and thick. ‘And I think I should listen to my instincts. Look what happened last time I confronted him.’ And look where he ended up. Here, in therapy, having to explain himself.
‘Do you recognise how your body reacts when we talk about Everett?’ Martin asked. ‘I want you to check in right now. Explain to me what’s happening.’
Adam closed his eyes, breathing sharply in through his nostrils. He felt torn between wanting to engage, to see if this thing they were doing could really make him feel better, and resisting it, having a little fun until he pushed Martin too far.
Maybe that’s why he’d been so good at his job. He found people fascinating, but he found their reactions irresistible. Some of his best experiences had come from coaxing stoic men into revealing their inner emotions. Strange how being on the other side of the fence didn’t feel quite so satisfying.
Ah hell. What did he have to lose? ‘My heart is pounding,’ he said quietly, trying to tune in with his physiological reactions. ‘And my pulse is racing, I can hear it rushing through my ears.’
‘What about your hands?’
Adam opened his eyes and looked down to his sides, where his hands were tightly rolled into fists. ‘Yeah, I kind of want to punch something.’
‘Do you recognise what you’re experiencing?’
‘Fight or flight,’ Adam said softly. ‘Except I really want to fight.’
‘Now look around you. Breathe in a mouthful of air. Take everything in. Tell me what you see.’
Adam scanned the room, his eyes taking in the details that most people overlooked. The way one of the blind slats was at an awkward angle, as though somebody had tugged the cord too tightly that morning. A gap in the bookshelf – dust free – where something had been removed recently. Martin’s car keys, slung on the table next to the door, alongside his wallet and a yellow piece of paper – was that a parking ticket? As though he’d arrived late and carelessly dropped them down, without thinking of the security risk.
‘I see your office,’ Adam said, taking in another mouthful of air. ‘I see your desk, and your books, and the half-drunk mug of coffee on the table next to you.’ He glanced to his right. ‘And I see your window, with the broken blind. It’s snowing outside, and the flakes are sticking to the glass, as if they’re trying to claw their way into the room.’
‘That’s good.’ Martin nodded encouragingly. ‘Can you see any threats in here? Anything that should cause your body to react the way it did?’
Adam’s eyes darted around the room once again. ‘No.’
‘So how would you classify your reaction?’