Empire of Lies - Whitney G. Page 0,43

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.”

“I must have missed that.” I walk over to his desk and pick up one of the rare cigars from his Tinder box. “You still collect these?”

I don’t wait for him to answer. Instead, I pull a lighter out of my pocket and place the cigar into my mouth. I take a long drag and debate whether I want to take a few of his cigars with me on the way out.

You have very good taste, Dr. McAllister.

“Did you not hear me say that you need to leave my office, sir?” He walks over to me and crosses his arms. “I believe I asked you very nicely.”

“It’s amazing how easily you’ve been able to take your business to the next level after all these years.” I walk over to the far wall, pretend to admire all of his framed certificates and medals. “I bet you’re very proud of yourself.”

“I am…” He stares at me, looking completely confused.

“I bet you’d be even prouder of yourself if you didn’t wake up every morning with the guilt of what kept you in this business,” I say, putting out the cigar and tucking it into my jacket. “I bet your clients would scatter like roaches, if they knew who you really were and what you were doing twenty-five years ago.”

“I have no idea what the hell you’re talking about.”

“Denial isn’t helpful, Doctor. You used to tell me that all the time…” I walk over to a huge black case on the wall, where he keeps a custom diamond beretta pistol.

“Please don’t touch that.” He holds up his hand. “It’s a classic beretta. It was handcrafted just for me.”

“Is it loaded?”

“Of course, it’s loaded.” He rolls his eyes. “Please, don’t—” He lets out a sigh as I take it out of the case, as I run my finger over its beautiful, diamond-studded trigger. “Look, whoever you are, I really don’t have time to play these games. I’ve honestly never seen you a day in my life, and I’d like to continue doing so.”

“You were never a frequent visitor at 347 Holden Lane Avenue twenty-five years ago?” I say, and his face immediately pales. “Never spent significant time with two identical twin brothers named Michael and Trevor?”

He gasps and takes a step back.

“This is the part when you admit that you do know me,” I say. “That you knew me long before I ever became an unfortunate client of yours. You can also admit that you spent most of our sessions trying to convince me into believing what did and didn’t happen.”

“I was a bad social service director then.” He swallows. “I would never treat you the same way now as I did then.”

“Because you moved on to others.” I look around the room, making sure this scene will look exactly how I want. A random murder in the middle of the day. “You thought that if you just stopped and tried to become a World Renowned Child Specialist, that it would erase all of the things you did before. It fucking doesn’t.”

He’s peeing his pants, shaking and attempting to grab his cell phone from his pocket.

“I’m usually civil about these types of things,” I say, moving his