My Stepbrother's Dirty Little Secret novel Chapter 452

Chapter 452

I looked toward the windows, toward the city below, toward anything except the memory that had appeared without permission.

I turned back to him, “I considered diagnosing myself.”

One of his eyebrows lifted slightly, “I assumed someone like you would.”

I started pacing, the couch was no longer tolerable, “I spent six hours researching.”

The therapist looked unsurprised, “Six?”

“Closer to eight.”

That earned the faintest hint of amusement.

“I reviewed neurological disorders. Sleep disorders. Stress-related conditions. Hormonal issues, vitamin deficiencies, adrenal dysfunction, cardiovascular abnormalities.”

The therapist leaned back slightly, “And what conclusion did you reach?”

I stopped walking, “According to the internet, I have cancer.”

His mouth twitched, the man actually looked entertained.

“The internet always says cancer.”

A bookshelf passed on my left, then the window, then the couch, then the bookshelf again, “I searched one symptom.”

The therapist nodded.

“Temporary mental lapses. Three websites later I apparently had a terminal illness.”

His shoulders moved slightly and I knew he was laughing internally.

“Then I reviewed the symptoms,” I spread my hands, “I have none of it.”

The therapist opened his mouth.

I immediately continued, “So unless cancer has developed a sense of humor, that isn’t the answer.”

“Raphael-”

“No.”

He blinked.

“No?”

“I know what you’re going to ask.”

“You do?”

“Yes.”

I pointed toward him, “You’re going to ask about timing.”

He nodded, “Yes…”

“The first incident happened during a meeting.”

The therapist finally lowered his notebook slightly.

My eyes remained on the skyline, “I was having a conversation with someone I trust. He informed me of something,” I shoved both hands into my pockets, “Something hypothetical.”

The therapist waited.

I kept talking, rubbing the back of my neck, “A possibility.”

I glanced at him and the man had mastered the art of looking patient.

“I thought someone might get hurt.”

The therapist’s attention sharpened.

“Not me. It wasn’t concern for myself. I remember standing there,” the memory returned, the screens, the conversation and then that sudden feeling like somebody had grabbed my thoughts and ripped them sideways, “I stopped hearing the room. I stopped hearing him. I knew he was speaking…”

The therapist nodded once, “But?”

“But it was like everything disappeared for a second.”

Everything muffled except one thought, one person… Green eyes.

I rubbed a hand across my jaw, “The second incident was worse. There was an argument. I was already frustrated.”

That was putting it mildly.

“I remember her walking away.”

The therapist sighed, “There it is.”

“There what is?”

“The reason you’re here.”

I frowned, “No.”

The therapist leaned back slightly in his chair. A small smile appeared on his face, “Mr. Capone-”

“Raphael.”

“Raphael,” he corrected, “Let’s try something simpler.”

“I enjoy simple.”

“What was the common factor?”

I stared at him, raising an eyebrow.

“In the three situations, the moments you described. What is the common factor?”

I leaned back onto the couch, “A woman.”

The therapist nodded, “Tell me about her.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because she’s irrelevant.”

The therapist actually laughed, “Interesting.”

“What’s interesting?”

“You answered too fast.”

For some reason that made me dislike him slightly.

The therapist picked up his pen, “Tell me about the woman.”

I sighed, “She’s twenty-two.”