Not What it Seems by Nicky James

Six

Cyrus

Sleep was an elusive bastard.

When I got back to the hotel after visiting the morgue, I had no appetite. I paced the small hotel room until I was at risk of wearing out the thin carpet underfoot. This was all River Jenkins’s fault. I should have known my decision to walk into that room would be the death of my career. I was weak and easily influenced and manipulated all because we’d shared a connection once upon a time. My professionalism had gone out the window. Now, I was racing off to the morgue, investigating possibilities because I refused to believe River Jenkins—the man who’d lied and ghosted me—was capable of murder. I wanted the fantasy I’d created two months ago to be real. No matter how ridiculous, I couldn’t let the notion go. I couldn’t force my brain to see River for who he was. A player. A manipulator.

It was Grant all over again. I’d been so desperate to be loved that I’d allowed his toxicity and abuse to carry on for years.

I didn’t know what to do. If what I’d learned today was true, then River was a lone soldier, fighting a war he couldn’t win against a foe he couldn’t see. The police were waiting on my report. They weren’t about to entertain the idea that the man they’d caught was innocent. There was no reason. River was fucked.

Unless I helped him.

Unless I risked everything.

He wasn’t psychotic. He wasn’t a sociopath. He was the innocent fly who’d taken a wrong turn and wound up tangled in someone else’s sick web of destruction. But why? Why him? And who was out there killing young women with bleach?

Were there more homeless girls the police had yet to find? River had been locked up for five weeks. It was highly possible. I should have asked Dr. Brady if the two Jane Does were the only ones or if others had come in before them. Then again, if there was an increase in dead young homeless girls, the police might suspect something was going on.

And they hadn’t.

If I were a braver man, I would throw caution to the wind and talk to the police. Tell them everything. But they would have questions. They would want to know why I had taken matters into my own hands and gone to the morgue under false pretenses. What if by talking I tainted my career? I could lose my standing.

It might be deemed that I’d been corrupted by a patient. Where had I come up with this crazy idea anyhow? What if they ended up investigating me before they investigated two dead homeless girls whose deaths were easily explained? My professional ethics would be questioned. Would it come out that I’d had a sexual relationship with the accused? Had I allowed him to manipulate me? Had I been too easily influenced? Was I not capable of being impartial?

Was I a risk?

And, more to the point, what if the police thought I was part of it?

“What the hell am I supposed to do now?”

It was nearing five in the morning, and I hadn’t slept a wink. The right answer escaped me. Could I ignore what I knew and leave other women to potentially die? The thought was horrifying. What would River do to find the killer? What could he do? Nothing from inside a secure hospital.

Even if he was on the outside, how could he solve this? He didn’t know any more than I did. I wasn’t prepared to chase down a killer. There was no way in hell.

How can you stand yourself? You live your whole life in a tiny box. Jesus, Cy. You wouldn’t J-walk to save yourself from a zombie attack. Perfect Cyrus Irvine. You’re such a conformer. Sometimes we have to take risks in life.

“Maybe in your life, Grant, but not mine. Fuck off and get out of my head. I have to do the right thing.”

But what was the right thing? How could I help River and not put my job at risk?

Your job, your job, your job. It’s always about your goddamn job. Nothing will ever outrank your job. Do you know what’s funny, Cy? I can’t believe how stupid your patients are. Do they know their doctor is just as fucked in the head as they are?

An old aching pain burned under my ribcage. Grant wasn’t wrong, but I hadn’t always put my job above him. I hadn’t always had a mountain of insecurities that resulted in constant indecision. I’d loved him once until I’d woken up one day and realized his abusive words were part of the reason I hated myself so much. It was Grant who sat at the root of so many of my problems. I wasn’t stupid. I saw the role he’d played in destroying my self-confidence. I saw the trap I’d fallen into again and again. Grant wasn’t happy unless he made me feel like shit. He didn’t like when I didn’t put him first. He’d told me a hundred—a thousand—times there were more important things in life than work. If I refused to listen, he would take a sledgehammer to my self-worth.

I had more psychological bruises than I could count.

Was it so wrong to want to do a good job? To want to excel? My parents had taught me perseverance. They had encouraged me to reach for the sky. They’d drilled into me the importance of reputation and hard work. Twenty years in the field, and I’d gone far. My skills and knowledge were sought after. My name was known from coast to coast. I was proud of my accomplishments.

But I was lonely.

Some days I felt like a fraud.

My inner demons roared and mocked me. What right did I have to help others when I hadn’t been able to help myself? When I’d marinated in a bad relationship for years instead of leaving?

I was never a risk-taker. I walked the straight and narrow. I followed the rules.

How damaging would it be to let my id take over for a change? Be impulsive, follow instincts, take a small risk if it meant saving lives?

“It’s not small.”

What I was considering was huge. Mountainous. Colossal. The sheer idea made me sick.

Or I could turn a blind eye. I could complete an honest assessment of River, meet with the director of New Horizon, and be on the road back to St. Catherines by midday. River would be released to police custody, and, barring a miracle, he’d spend his life in prison.

“And more people will die.”

The guilt of that outcome pressed hard on my shoulders. How could I go on living, knowing I was responsible for other people’s deaths?

“I’ll talk to the police. I have to.”

But the ramifications of that choice slammed back into me as fresh as they’d been a dozen or so minutes ago. I was going in circles. I wanted nothing to do with this whole situation, yet I’d fallen smack into the middle of a crisis. I wasn’t strong enough or brave enough to face this kind of dilemma.

“An anonymous call to the police? That might work.”

My feet stalled as I poked the new idea. Would they toss it aside? How would I know if they took it seriously? They might not look into it at all.

Besides, what would I tell the police? I think you need to look at the deaths of two homeless girls more closely. They might have died from ingesting or drowning in bleach, just like the girls at the hotel. But how did I know those facts unless I’d read the police report? They’d never released the cause of death to the media. I knew because it was potentially important to understanding the psychology of my patient’s mind. It was too suspicious. Even an anonymous tip had the potential to shine a spotlight on my head.

I tugged my hair, squeezed my eyes closed, and screamed my frustration through gritted teeth.

* * *

When the sun rose, I was no closer to a decision. I showered, dressed, and called my parents for a quick chat. My mind was elsewhere, so I made excuses and cut our conversation short. Glaring at myself in the bathroom mirror, I decided I was presentable on the outside. No one could see the utter chaos inside my head.

I allowed myself ten seconds of self-recrimination before I shut it down and packed it away. I did that a lot. It was self-destructive. I had plenty of textbook conditions I could trace back to my upbringing or other major events that had molded and shaped my life, but Grant was the biggest. Grant’s wounds went deepest.

So what? I wasn’t perfect. Who was?

I shoved away from the mirror and left the hotel, still unsure what I was doing.

At a nearby cafe, I took a table and sipped a coffee while picking at a toasted bagel. I wasn’t hungry, and the bread got stuck in my throat every time I tried to swallow.

My entire night and everything I’d been mulling over coalesced into thoughts of Grant and our failed relationship. It would figure. I’d become more and more aware of my inner flaws over the years. I was one of those people who couldn’t let go. I played and replayed all our arguments, wincing at all the things I’d said or not said, hating myself more each time. Situations like the one I faced only made it worse. Grant had been gone for two years, yet his recriminations and judgment were as loud today as the day he’d left.

According to Grant, I was pretentious, overly analytical, and pessimistic. I had no backbone and didn’t know how to stand up for myself. It was his opinion that our relationship had failed because I couldn’t stop picking apart his faults and refused to acknowledge my own. He loved it when I made mistakes. He thrived on those moments, making me feel a thousand times worse than necessary.

My flaws ate at me day and night.

I was too rigid. Too stringent.

And too fearful of making mistakes or doing anything wrong. Like with the River situation. What was the right answer? How could I fix it so no one else got hurt?

I shoved my bagel aside and took one last mouthful of coffee before leaving the nearly full cup behind. Having been up all night, I knew I’d regret my decision to abandon the caffeine later, but I couldn’t unfurl the knot in my belly.

When I got to my car, I let instinct guide me.

I was a good, law-abiding person.

I called the police station in London. If I’d had more time, I’d have gone in and talked to someone face-to-face. It was the right thing to do.

The woman at the switchboard transferred my call to Detective Jasmine Allen, the lead investigator on the River Jenkins case. She came on the line with a curt, “Allen, what do you need?”

“Detective Allen? My name is Cyrus Irvine. I’m the psychiatrist who’s been called in to assess River Jenkins. I was wondering if you had a minute to chat.”

There was a shuffling of papers in the background, then Allen said, “Okay. What’s going on, Dr. Irvine? Is there something I can do for you?”

“Maybe. I’ve read the reports that have been provided several times, and I’ve talked with the patient extensively over the past two days—”

“Have you confirmed his diagnosis?”

I paused, my skin growing tight. “I haven’t submitted a report yet, no.”

“Go on.”

“I read the newspaper and saw a small article about two recent deaths in the Masonville area. Two young women who presented as homeless.”

I waited to see if Detective Allen would confirm.

She said nothing.

“Their descriptions seemed to match the women found in the hotel. Blonde. Late teens or early twenties. Slender. It’s also not too far-fetched to consider they might have been prostitutes like the women in the hotel.”

“We haven’t classified the women from the hotel as prostitutes. What are you getting at, Doctor?”

“But the app… Never mind.” I dug my fingers into my thigh as I worked on keeping my breathing steady. “What I’m saying is, I’m not convinced the patient was responsible. I understand the evidence suggests—”

“With all due respect, Dr. Irvine, determining guilt is not your job, is it?”

“No. But these girls who were recently found—”

“Died of an overdose if I understand correctly. It’s quite common in the homeless population. Especially if they were prostitutes like you suggest.”

“Or maybe you don’t have the right person. They fit the profile. Has the coroner confirmed if they—”

“Dr. Irvine, I appreciate your concern. I appreciate your phone call.” Her tone suggested otherwise. “Unfortunately, you’re reaching. We have a dedicated team of professionals working on this case. I assure you. My biggest concern is finding out the validity of the accused’s mental health. That is how you can best help us.”

Swirling anxiety wormed through my veins. She wasn’t listening. How could I make her hear me without compromising myself or Dr. Brady? “Detective, please. I urge you to go to the morgue. Check out the two girls. I have a strong suspicion they’re tied to this somehow and they didn’t die of an overdose. The killer’s MO has likely—”

“MO? Profile? Doctor, I’m trying hard not to be rude, but you need to lay off the crime shows. This isn’t TV. Now, I’m going to hang up and let you get back to your day. Thank you for—”

“Please. Just go see them. The bodies showed—”

“—your insight. I look forward to your report.”

The line went dead.

“—evidence of bleach.” I stared at my phone.

Twice I tapped the call back button, wanting to insist Detective Allen listen, but I couldn’t shake the fear that this whole fight would turn around and make me look bad without getting me anywhere.

Aiming the car vents at my face, I closed my eyes and let the cool, air-conditioned air blow against my heated skin. On the inside of my eyelids, I saw raw throats belonging to two dead women. Bleach splashed clothing. An impact wound on the side of Jane Doe Two’s head. Prostitutes? I couldn’t dismiss it.

How had I wound up in the middle of this?

I put the car in drive and headed for the institute.

I arrived at New Horizon twenty minutes before my session with River was set to begin. Part of me was prepared to march into the director’s office and tell her I was finished. The patient’s assessment would be on her desk in a few hours. My mind pulled me in that direction. It was the right thing to do. The professional thing to do. Let River’s lawyer prove his innocence. It wasn’t my job. Let the police connect the dots.

At the administration desk, Andy had the phone pinned between his shoulder and ear while he tapped frantically at the computer. He barked at whoever was on the other line. “No, I’m pulling it up right now… Yes, I realize that. Jesus, give me a second. Our system is slow as molasses… No. Don’t tell me how to do my job. I can’t make it load any faster.”

Whatever he and the other person were discussing, it was intense and stealing all his attention. When Andy saw me waiting, he cupped the receiver and waved at the clipboard, hissing, “Just sign one out.” Then he gestured at a spot under the desk out of his reach. “In that drawer over there, come around and grab one.” He turned his focus back to the computer as he spoke to the person on the phone again. “No, I’m still here. Okay, here we go. Now, what is it you need exactly?”

I scratched my name on the clipboard, signing out a key card, then let myself through the small gate to get behind the desk. When I opened the drawer Andy had indicated, my muscles seized. A handful of key cards on lanyards were tangled together in a lump at the bottom.

My breath caught. All I could do was stare at them.

Was it a sign?

It was wrong, wrong, wrong.

Or…

Was it fate providing me with answers I couldn’t have come up with on my own? Was this an opportunity?

Without pausing too long to think, I grabbed two key cards while Andy’s back was turned and shoved the second one into a pocket. I could always change my mind.

You’re still breaking the rules, my conscience said.

Heat incinerated my core as I walked too fast down the hall and away from the administration desk. The elevator took me to the second floor in a nauseating lurch. I had to hold the wall to stay on my feet. My cheeks burned, my armpits poured sweat, and my heart jackhammered loud enough I was sure anyone in a twenty-mile radius could hear my guilt. The small plastic card weighed as much as a freight train.

What was I doing? This was insanity.

Every hallway I went down, every corner I turned, I told myself to retreat. Go to the director’s office. End this. End it now. I hadn’t done anything wrong yet—or at least not anything unforgivable or unfixable. Make a report. Go home. My morals and ethics would remain unscathed.

And more people will die, and it will be all your fault.

And River’s life would be over.

Because I was a coward.

You’re such a fucking pussy, Cy. You’re pathetic. How can you stand yourself? God, I’m embarrassed to be around you sometimes.

I gritted my teeth and went to the lounge where we conducted our sessions. River wasn’t there yet, so I sat and waited. Like a live wire, I was jumpy and itching to be anywhere else. It was as though a million ants were crawling through my veins. My skin tingled. My scalp bristled. Under the table, my knee bounced out of control. The roar of noise in my head was deafening, and I fought against my conscience and Grant’s admonishments.

I am not a coward. I am not a coward.

I was quite possibly an idiot.

I wiped a hand over my face, unsurprised when it came back wet with perspiration.

The click of the door unlocking almost sent me flying out of my seat. An orderly let River into the room and closed the door behind him. River took one look at me and flinched. It was evidence I was not holding myself together at all, and my moral dilemma glowed bright enough for anyone to see. Just what I needed, a flashing sign over my head announcing my guilt.

“You don’t look so well, Doc.”

I threaded my fingers through my hair, likely leaving my locks in a disheveled mess, then indicated the chair. “Sit.” The single word came out as more of a croak.

River sat, his gaze never leaving my face. Warm, honey-colored eyes took me in from head to toe. He remained silent, waiting. His face was scruffier today, which made his expression graver. His shirt pulled tight across his chest, bunching under the arms. I was painfully aware of how attractive he was and how that attraction tugged at something deep inside me.

Compromised!You are compromised!

I almost burst out laughing. If this were a game, I’d have no doubt I was the pawn. Had River lured me in with his good looks and charm so he could force me to do his bidding?

“No,” I said out loud, shaking my head. “No. That’s not… No.”

River frowned. “Doc? You’re talking to yourself. I’m supposed to be the crazy one here, remember?”

I swallowed bile and met his eyes. With an evident tremble, I opened the brown file folder and withdrew the article I’d torn out of the newspaper earlier that morning. I slid it across the table without a word.

River read it, his auburn hair falling and covering part of his face as he lowered his head. It didn’t take long since there wasn’t a whole lot to read. When he finished, he lifted a single brow and caught my eye, tapping the paper. “You think it’s related?”

River sounded hopeful like he’d spent all night wondering what today’s meeting might bring.

“Yesterday, you said homeless people die all the time, and no one cares.”

He waited, knowing I wasn’t finished.

I cleared my throat, leaning closer and staring at the article, keeping my voice low. “You said the killer would keep killing. It’s a compulsion. I saw this, and it made me wonder. Two young women. Both blonde. Both slender. Both apparently dead from overdoses. No one investigated it further. No one claimed the bodies. They’re nothing more than statistics. Shoved aside. Forgotten. The article is a poor attempt at trying to locate family members. I thought maybe it was nothing, but…” I shrugged, my stomach twisting and pulling so tight I clutched it. “I thought, what if it’s something? So… I went to the morgue.”

River’s eyes—the color of whiskey and honey and a fall sky at sunset—widened. “You went to the morgue,” he hissed, his voice conspiratorially quiet. He shuffled closer to the table, meeting me in the middle until our faces were inches apart.

I told myself to move back, but the close-up view of River’s face and his rapt attention held me spellbound. I was not a coward. I’d stepped outside my comfort zone. I’d looked into something completely absurd in search of the truth.

And look what I’d found.

“The pathologist doesn’t have permission to perform autopsies. They’re homeless, and all the evidence points to drug addiction and overdose. They were both young and blonde and petite like the article said. Sound familiar?”

“Like the girls at the hotel. Same description.”

I nodded, wetting my lips and trying to steady my runaway heart. “Maybe I’m reaching, but prostitution and drugs go hand in hand, especially with street living. I have no idea if these women were prostitutes, but—”

River caught on fast. “But the ones from the hotel. They used that app. It wasn’t a dating app.”

“Right.” A thought I’d had the previous night snuck to the surface. I paused, ready to push it aside since it felt irrelevant, but I couldn’t resist the urge to ask. “Are you bisexual?”

River rattled his head, blinking in confusion. “What? No. Why? What does that have to do with anything?”

“No interest in women at all?”

“No. What are you… Oh. Ooh.” His brows kissed his hairline.

I nodded. Not wanting to get on a tangent or for River to read too much into my inquiry, I moved on. “But there’s more. The pathologist let me see the bodies. There was evidence these two women might have ingested a harsh chemical before death.”

River’s lips parted, a tiny gasp fluttering in the air between us. “Bleach?” he whispered.

“It’s not conclusive, but I strongly suspect that’s what it was.”

I told him about the clothing. I told him about the state of their throats and about the abrasion on Jane Doe Two’s temple. I shared the questions I’d asked Dr. Brady and his educated opinion surrounding the possibility of the victims having ingested a harsh chemical like bleach before dying.

“Holy shit.” River flopped back in his chair and tore both hands through his tousled hair. His eyes were wild as he processed what I’d shared, and it took a solid two minutes before they landed on me again with pure determination. “I was right. Holy fuck, I was right. She’s still out there, killing.”

I pinched my lips together, unwilling to agree or disagree. He saw the truth on my face.

After a minute, I added the one piece of bad news I’d acquired earlier. “I tried talking to the police. They wouldn’t listen. I wanted to… I told them all I could. River, she hung up on me. She—”

River launched across the table, snagging my tie. He tugged me closer, hissing in my ear, “You’re going to help me now, right? You have to. You see it. Doc, don’t leave me in here. Don’t let them prosecute me. Please.”

I peeled his hands from my tie, the whirling hurricane of panic in my core shifting to a cataclysmic level of destruction. The key card in my pocket burned against my thigh, reminding me of the risks I’d already taken for this man. A man I didn’t really know. A man I’d let fuck me senseless for three nights a couple of months ago.

When I managed to get free, I shook my head, frantically ensuring River got the point. “No. Absolutely not. I’ve done enough. I’ve done too much. I can’t—”

You’re a coward! A pathetic coward!

“Please. You have to help me.” The note of desperation in River’s voice strangled out the rest of my protest. “Doc? Cyrus? Please. I know you hate me. If I could make it up to you, I would. Please. Don’t abandon me. They’ll put me away for life. More people will die.”

It felt like my insides were being torn in half, a raging battle of right and wrong. They couldn’t both win. Either way, I would be crushed. I couldn’t jeopardize my job, my life’s work, any more than I could jeopardize innocent women’s lives.

Or River’s.

Why did I care what happened to him?

Why did it matter?

I rested my hand over the key card in my pocket. The other hung around my neck, dangling on its lanyard, its presence a noose. Was I about to hang myself? Was this how it all ended? Was this the day I took a stance and fought back against Grant’s hurtful remarks that had devastated me for years? Or would I walk out and prove him right?

What choice did I have?

Hadn’t I already decided?

Someone needed to find the killer. Someone needed to get justice for the dead women. The police weren’t going to do it—not because they were incapable but because they’d already decided where to place the blame. They’d stopped looking. They wouldn’t listen. I’d tried.

River wasn’t sick. River wasn’t guilty.

“Cyrus, please. I want my life back. It wasn’t a great life, it wasn’t always an honest life, but it was mine.” For the first time, a hint of emotion tinged his words. His eyes turned glassy, and his throat ticked as he tried to regain control. “I just want to clear my name. I want to find the truth. Help me.” The last two words were mouthed, but I read them from his trembling lips.

Heart racing, I noted the camera in the upper corner of the room. I gauged where the blind spots were. Leaving the file folder on the table, I stood and paced, all the while calculating the angle of the camera without looking at it. It was like walking to my own execution. My shoes echoed louder and louder inside my brain.

“This will be our last session, Mr. Jenkins,” I said, aiming for a clinical, neutral tone. I spoke loudly, in case someone was on the other side of the door listening. “I have enough information to conclusively say you don’t need to be here.” I paced in and out of the blind spot, hands deep in my pockets, ignoring the horrified look on River’s face. He was watching me. That was all I needed. “When I leave here, I will return to my hotel room and complete the required report. Tomorrow morning at eight o’clock, I will meet with the director and submit it. That’s just under twenty-four hours from now.”

Your clock is ticking.

With my fingers gripping the key card so tight they ached, I stopped pacing out of sight of the camera’s spread and thought one last time about what I was doing. Closing my eyes, I prayed I wasn’t making a mistake. Whatever happened to River after this was no concern of mine. I will have done my part, and I would follow through with the plan I’d laid out. Then, I’d go back to St. Catherines and live my life. I trusted him to get justice on his own. I didn’t know how he’d do it, but that wasn’t my problem.

I tugged my hand from my pocket, dropping the key card on the ground before approaching River with an extended hand. “It’s been a pleasure, Mr. Jenkins. Good luck.”

River was smart. The second he realized what I’d done, his gaze flicked from the dropped card to my face, his expression transforming from horror to surprise to shock to stone-faced neutral. He rose and shook my hand, holding on a beat or so longer than I expected.

“Thank you, Doc. Thank you.” The clogged emotion in his voice wasn’t hidden. There was so much unsaid in that simple handshake, but I refused to acknowledge it.

Once more, before releasing his hand, I mouthed, “Good luck.” Then I left the room and the hospital, hoping I hadn’t made the biggest mistake of my career.