Methy Barrett...

"Let's assume that she killed herself."

I agreed.

"Do you know why she would do that?"

"I don't know"

He was dismissive.

"You were her husband... Beloved husband, as you mentioned earlier."

I have to get a hold of him somewhere.

He thought for a second.

"That doesn't mean I should have answers for everything... You know, Doc. We often know more about strangers than our own people."

"Your answers are not comfortable to me. You are twisting the case."

I sighed.

“Then what exactly would make you comfortable?”

He looked amused.

“Something real.”

I demanded. No philosophy. Just clear answers.

His gaze remained fixed on me.

“You've known me for less than a day combined.”

“Exactly.”

A small silence settled between us.

Elijah finally looked away.

“My wife used to say I was terrible at making people comfortable.”

“Was she right?”

“She usually was.”

He agreed.

I wrote something down.

“What was she like?”

His fingers tightened slightly around the armrest.

“You ask that every time.”

“Because every answer tells me something different.”

I kept writing.

“And what have you learned?”

He played with the crushed flower. Not a bit guilty that he crushed a beautiful flower, and now he is admiring it.

“That you loved her.”

His eyes returned to mine.

“That's what you've learned?”

His lips curved.

“Yes.”

“And what else?”

“That you don't like talking about her.”

“I don't.”

He remained calm.

“Because it hurts?”

I questioned.

“Because everyone wants her to be one thing.”

He sighed like he was getting bored.

I frowned.

“What do you mean?”

“A victim. A beautiful dead wife. A woman who couldn't possibly have had secrets.”

His voice remained calm.

“But she was a person.”

I stopped writing.

“And people are complicated.”

“Yes.”

He chuckled.

"Way too complicated."

“Were you complicated together?”

I don't know why my heart clenched at the question.

A faint, humourless smile appeared on his beautiful lips.

“We were married.”

“That isn't an answer.”

Again, he was twisting the conversation.

“It is if you've ever been married.”

His twisted smile was still there.

I smiled despite myself.

“Fair enough.”

Elijah noticed.

“You smiled.”

“I do that occasionally.”

I shrugged.

“I was beginning to think you didn't.”

He chuckled.

“I was beginning to think you were incapable of making a joke.”

I shot back playfully.

“I've made several.”

He was proud.

“I haven't noticed.”

“That's probably because you were busy analysing me.”

His eyes do something to me. Something weird.

“That's my job.”

I stopped smiling.

“And if I asked you to stop?”

He wasn't hesitating.

“I'd tell you to find another therapist.”

I can be brutally honest when I want to be.

That earned a genuine laugh from him.

It was brief and unexpected.

I found myself staring for half a second too long before returning to my notes. He looks beautiful when he laughs.

Elijah noticed that too.

“You're curious about me.”

“I'm curious about your case.”

I cleared my throat.

“Of course.”

There was something in the way he said it that made me look up.

“What?”

I frowned.

“Nothing.”

He shrugged.

“You don't seem like a man who says 'nothing' when he means nothing.”

I challenged.

His expression softened.

“Perhaps I'm learning.”

“Learning what?”

“How to answer you.”

I closed my file.

“That's exactly what worries me.”

“Why?”

His eyes narrowed.

“Because I can't tell if you're opening up…”

I held his gaze.

"Or simply getting better at performing.”

The room went silent. Elijah didn't look offended.

Instead, he leaned forward slightly.

“Doc?”

“Yes?”

“If I were performing, would you be able to tell?”

I hesitated.

“I don't know.”

“Good.”

“Why is that good?”

“Because neither do I.”

For the first time, his expression lost its certainty.

And I couldn't decide whether that made him more believable or more dangerous.

When Dr Brooke said that he can be manipulative, she wasn't joking.

He is really something. And it's not going to be easy to read him. He has so much in his mind, his eyes and his lips.

I don't know how to align all three together to read him like an open book.

It's going to be a difficult task.

What I can think of about him is that now he cares for his wife. He isn't mad at her; he is not cursing her to end him in this situation after her death. He talks about her respectfully.

There is that unknown pain in his eyes whenever he looks at me, like he wants to tell me something deep but can't trust me yet. He is hiding it behind his twisted answers perfectly.

Maybe he is trying to see if he can really trust me with his secrets.

The biggest problem with men like Elijah is that they don't know how to deal with pain. They feel it's a weakness; their pride doesn't let them entertain this feeling. And that's where they go wrong. You shouldn't suppress things till they burst out.

"We'll see about that, Elijah..."

I kept his file aside.

"Let's continue in the next session."

He rubbed his hands on his knees and got up.

"Thanks, Doc... It wasn't that bad. I think I am enjoying this."

"You shouldn't."

I warned.

"I know"

He turned around to leave.

"Elijah, how important are my reports to you?"

I asked.

He stopped at the door and turned his head slightly to hold my eyes.

"Just think that I have placed my sanity in your hands. Now it's on you whether you want to hold it or crush it."

He smiled.

"See you, Doc..."

"You smile too much."

I placed my hand on the door to close it.

"Really?"

He was out of the door frame.

"My wife always complained that I don't smile enough."

I watched him walk away and closed the door.

How would I ever know what his wife was thinking?

I wonder what she had to say about this. It would have been interesting.

But the dead don't talk. Do they?