Chapter 3

The rain had weakened by late afternoon, but the city still carried the storm in its bones.

Water dripped steadily from scaffolding outside Evelyn’s cab as it crawled downtown through traffic thickened by commuters and wet pavement. The windows fogged at the corners, blurring neon signs into bleeding streaks of color.

Evelyn sat angled toward the glass with her phone resting face-down in her lap.

She had spent most of the ride telling herself this was work.

A source. An interview. A possible connection to Lena’s case.

Not obsession.

Definitely not the kind that had kept her awake until sunrise replaying the same thirty-second video over and over until she could practically hear the bridge in her apartment even after muting the sound.

Her thumb brushed absently against the edge of her phone.

She still hadn’t listened to the voice again.

That felt important somehow.

The cab stopped outside a narrow brick building on West 22nd Street with discreet brass lettering beside the entrance:

CROSS BEHAVIORAL CONSULTING

Nothing about it looked particularly clinical. No sterile white walls visible through the windows. No smiling stock-photo patients. Just warm interior lighting and dark wood shelves visible beyond the glass.

Money, Evelyn thought automatically.

Quiet expensive money.

She paid the driver and stepped out beneath the lingering mist of rainwater dripping from fire escapes overhead.

Inside, the lobby smelled faintly of cedar and coffee.

A woman at the front desk looked up immediately.

“Ms. Harper?”

Evelyn blinked. “Yes.”

“He’s expecting you.”

Something about the phrasing unsettled her slightly.

Not

Dr. Cross will be with you shortly.

Expecting you.

As though this meeting had already happened somewhere before she arrived.

The receptionist led her down a dim hallway lined with framed abstract paintings in muted blues and grays. The farther they walked, the quieter the city became until the sound of traffic disappeared completely behind insulated walls.

The office at the end of the hall stood partially open.

“Go ahead,” the receptionist said softly before leaving.

Evelyn hesitated only briefly before stepping inside.

The room was larger than she expected, though the lighting kept it intimate rather than impressive. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves covered one wall. Rain moved faintly against the tall windows overlooking the street below.

And standing near the desk, one hand resting lightly against the spine of an open book, was Adrian Cross.

He looked up as she entered.

For a second, neither of them spoke.

The photographs online hadn’t fully prepared her for him. They captured the structure of his face, the dark suits, the controlled expression — but not the stillness.

That was the first thing Evelyn noticed.

Not calm exactly.

More like precision.

Like every movement had already been considered before it happened.

“Ms. Harper,” he said.

His voice landed somewhere low in her chest before she could stop it.

The same voice from the video?

No.

Maybe.

Her stomach tightened.

Adrian closed the book carefully before setting it aside. “Thank you for coming.”

Evelyn forced herself to move farther into the office.

“I wasn’t aware I had a choice.”

Something almost amused flickered briefly near the corner of his mouth.

“Most people always have a choice.”

The answer felt deliberate somehow.

Evelyn unslung her bag and pulled out her recorder. “Do you mind if I tape this?”

“No.”

“You don’t seem nervous.”

“Should I be?”

“Usually people are around microphones.”

“I’m not particularly worried about being misunderstood.”

The response came smoothly enough that Evelyn immediately distrusted it.

She sat across from him while he remained standing another moment near the window, adjusting the cuff of his shirt beneath the sleeve of his coat. Small movement. Elegant hands.

Then he crossed the room and sat opposite her.

Not too close.

Not distant either.

Measured.

Everything about him felt measured.

Evelyn clicked the recorder on.

“For the record,” she began, “I’m speaking today with Dr. Adrian Cross, criminal psychiatrist and behavioral consultant. Dr. Cross has worked with multiple active investigations throughout New York and—”

“You’re uncomfortable.”

The interruption caught her off guard.

Evelyn looked up sharply.

Adrian’s expression hadn’t changed.

“What?”

“You keep pressing your thumb against your wrist.” His eyes flicked briefly downward before returning to her face. “People usually do that when they’re trying to ground themselves.”

Evelyn immediately stopped moving her hand.

Heat climbed slowly into her throat.

“That sounded very therapist of you.”

“You invited a psychiatrist onto your podcast.”

“Consultant first,” she corrected.

A pause settled briefly between them.

Rain whispered softly against the windows behind him.

Then Adrian said, “You’ve been sleeping badly.”

Not a question.

Evelyn gave a short laugh despite herself. “Is this part of the interview or are you profiling me for fun?”

“You have exhaustion bruising beneath your eyes, your pupils are slightly over-dilated, and your left hand shakes every time you mention the bridge.”

He said it gently.

That somehow made it worse.

Evelyn held his gaze longer this time.

Most men who studied people for a living made the mistake of looking proud while doing it. Adrian didn’t. There was no performance in him that she could immediately detect.

Only observation.

Complete and unnervingly focused.

She shifted slightly in her chair.

“So you know why I’m here.”

“I assumed.”

“You consulted on the Blackwater case.”

“I did.”

The answer came without hesitation.

Evelyn reached into her bag and pulled out printed copies of the archived article she’d found that morning.

“You weren’t mentioned in most official reports.”

“No.”

“Why?”

Adrian leaned back slightly, fingers loosely folded together.

“The department preferred limiting outside attention.”

“That sounds political.”

“It usually is.”

Evelyn studied him carefully.

“You remember Lena Vale?”

Something changed then.

Not visibly enough that most people would notice.

But she saw it.

A microscopic hesitation before he answered.

“Yes.”

The room seemed quieter suddenly.

“She was your patient?”

“No.”

“But you met her.”

“Yes.”

The precision of his answers began irritating her.

“Could you try giving me a full sentence?”

A softer version of that almost-smile appeared again.

“You’re angry,” he observed.

“I’m interviewing you.”

“Those aren’t mutually exclusive.”

Evelyn looked away first, pretending to adjust the recorder while steadying her breathing.

Something about him made her feel overexposed, as though he kept noticing things she hadn’t agreed to reveal.

Outside, rainwater slid slowly down the windows behind him in silver threads.

“When people experience severe trauma,” she said carefully, returning to the prepared questions she’d memorized in the cab, “how common are memory gaps?”

“Very.”

“And recovered memories?”

“Less reliable.”

“You don’t believe buried memories exist?”

“I believe memory changes every time we touch it.”

His voice remained even, but Evelyn sensed something heavier beneath the answer.

“You sound certain.”

“I sound experienced.”

The silence that followed stretched longer than it should have.

Adrian’s gaze rested on her with unsettling steadiness.

Then he said quietly, “Sometimes forgetting is the mind’s way of surviving proximity to something unbearable.”

The words settled heavily between them.

Evelyn swallowed.

The office suddenly felt too warm.

Without thinking, she asked, “Do you think people can sense when someone’s lying to them?”

Adrian’s eyes remained fixed on hers.

“Yes.”

“And can you?”

“Usually.”

The honesty of the answer startled her more than arrogance would have.

For reasons she couldn’t explain, she became acutely aware of the rain again. The sound of it against the windows. The dampness still lingering in the cuffs of her coat.

Adrian noticed her glance toward the glass.

And for the first time since she entered the office, something almost human crossed his face. Not amusement this time.

Recognition.

“Do you still hate the rain?” he asked softly.

Everything inside Evelyn went still.

Not because of the question.

Because of the way he said

still

.