Queen of Lies (Empire of Lies 2)

Confused, I rewind the video until I can see her writing a note at the dining room table. She leaves the sheet in perfect view for the cameras to see it, and then she ventures upstairs and into the one place where I don’t have any cameras. Her bedroom.

I zoom in on the note to catch a better view.

I’m running the cameras on a loop. Get ready to find me.

I smile. There are secondary cameras in the ceiling. She isn’t going anywhere.

Putting on my black leather gloves, I speed onto the road and command my car to text Trevor.

Me: Off to handle the therapist. I’ll call when I’m done.

His response is immediate.

Trevor: Thank you. (9 more to go.)

Michael

Now

Every child therapy office that I’ve ever visited is designed in the exact same way. There are open windows in the lobby, bright and cheery colors on the walls, and toys that clutter every corner in the waiting room. There’s also a Mickey Mouse printed on at least half of the tables, as if a fucking Disney character is capable of helping to soothe someone’s pain.

Dr. Holden McAllister’s office, the top child therapy center in New York City, is the complete opposite of those places. Situated on the top floor of a gleaming grey building on Billionaire’s Row, the rooms are all painted in dreary shades of pale beige. There are no bright and cheery colors on the wall, no toys to keep patients calm while they wait, and the only Disney Characters in sight are the ones that you may catch a glimpse of on a Times Square billboard.

Every time that I’ve managed to step inside this building to handle him, I’ve turned away at the last minute. I’ve always pushed his name further down my personal list since I don’t want to relive any of the things I used to tell him. The things he refused to believe, but knew damn well were the truth.

Today won’t be a turnaround day.

I’ve let him live enough of his life.

I slide a pair of black shades over my face and make sure my leather gloves are secure before taking the elevator up to the fifty-first floor.

“I’m sorry, sir, our office is closed,” the receptionist says as I step off the car. “You’ll have to come back tomorrow. If you’d like, I can take down your name and email address.’

I stand still and make out what type of person she is in five seconds.

Too eager to communicate. Wired on something other than coffee. Stupid.

She’ll definitely remember my face when the police find Dr. McAllister dead and ask for potential suspects, so the front entrance is out of the question.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “Looks like I’m on the wrong floor. Where’s the gym?”

“Ah, I figured. This happens all the time.” She smiles. “Right below on the fiftieth floor.”

I give her a fake smile in return and take the elevator a few floors down. I find my way to the emergency stairwell and wait for half an hour before heading back up to Dr. McAllister’s office.

I move from room to room and disable every camera and security feature. I double-check to make sure that no other employees are here, and then I stop dead in my tracks when I reach the patients’ waiting room.

Everything in his office is exactly how I remember it in my nightmares. The hard-plastic chairs that surround a shaky metal table, the rug that serves as an inkblot test, and the “Wall of Forgiveness” where each patient gets the “honor” of letting go of people who’ve hurt them in the past.

Walking over to the small bookshelf near the window, I push up the bottom panel to see if my message has survived the test of time. Right underneath the crackling paint, are the words I wrote at my last session here.

Fuck forgiveness. You will burn for this, and I’m going to watch you die.

Old and ugly memories begin to play in my head, and I shake them away before I can succumb to their twisted horrors. I set a timer on my watch—twenty-six minutes, and vow to get this done in half that time.

Making my way to the white French doors that lead to Dr. McAllister’s office, I knock as hard as I can.

“My business hours don’t start until nine o’clock tomorrow!” he calls out. “Go home, Taylor. Whatever it is, you can wait to tell me about it in the morning.”

“I’m not Taylor.” I step inside the room, shutting the door behind me. “I’m—”

“Trespassing,” he says, looking up from a book. “You can come back at nine o’clock just like everyone else. However, please know that I’m not open to taking clients like you.”

“What do you mean, clients like me?”

“Adults,” he says. “Surely you see the words, World Renowned Child Specialist etched on all of my doors. It’s not there for decoration.”