“Some people can be a little overly obsessive about school and grades,” she admitted. “But indulge me. How’s the professor? Are you getting along?”
Of course she’d remember that Cade didn’t have the best record with his former schools. And maybe there’d been an incident where he’d spat at someone. Or an incident where he’d followed his teacher home and recorded her dancing to the Frozen sound track in tube socks and a corset.
So this question was natural. Normal.
He flinched inwardly, but forced himself to speak. “He’s missing.”
Dr. Ainsworth leaned forward. “Missing?”
Cade lifted a shoulder. “One day, he just didn’t show up for class. Now, we have Dr. Angelo, who is this super-old lady. She doesn’t make us do anything, and she didn’t even grade the tests we took.” Cade forced a smile, and it felt funny on his mouth and stretched his cheeks. “So much for learning.”
Dr. Ainsworth tapped her pen against her lips. “Tell me your thoughts on why he disappeared.”
Cade didn’t hesitate. “Wherever he went, he was in a hurry.”
“Interesting. And why do you say that?” The shrink leaned forward in her chair.
She was so calculated in her movements. Her actions. Unlike Cade, she knew what everything meant.
He wished he could see into her head.
“Because he didn’t take our tests with him. Kip Landers says he thought he saw him walking across the back parking lot.”
“Did you see him?”
Cade frowned. Why was she asking so many questions? Was she cross-examining him?
“No.”
“Do you . . . care for the professor, Cade?”
“Hell no.”
Dr. Ainsworth seems startled. She pushed at her glasses. “Would you care to expand on that?”
Cade laughed. “The guy is a total douche bag. I’ve never seen anyone crueler, or take more delight in failure. And that includes my father.”
“Really?” The doctor scribbled something else in her folio. “Does he have many enemies?”
“Do you want me to name them?”
“Please try.”
“Let’s start with everyone who ever met the guy, period. He was a straight-up horrible person. If someone out there actually liked Stratford, they’d have to be a masochist.” Cade leaned back in his chair. He could talk about Stratford all day. That was the trick: stay as close to the truth as possible. That way, you had fewer lies to remember. “If one single person legitimately enjoyed his company—well, they could use some quality time in your new chair.” He patted the arm.
“So he is someone who does not enjoy his job as a teacher? Interesting.” Dr. Ainsworth paused, and she took off her glasses and carefully set them on her hulking wooden desk. “What do you think happened to Dr. Stratford, Cade?”
Cade hesitated.
He’d never expected to be asked this. He wanted to seem honest. He needed to seem honest.
“I don’t know. Maybe he just left. Just peaced out. He was weird. I mean, he hated everyone. But then, everyone hated him, too.”
“So you think something bad happened.”
“I just told you, I don’t know.” Cade gritted his teeth. He couldn’t let what his therapist called his “anger issues” show. He’d worked on those. He was supposed to be better.
Dr. Ainsworth stood and circled around her desk. She sat down next to him, and did something he had never seen her do before.
She reached out and put her hand on his arm.
“Cade,” she said, her voice quiet and low, “I need you to listen, and I need you to be very, very honest with me. Okay?”
“Okay.” Cade drew out the word. “What is it?”
Dr. Ainsworth took a moment to collect herself, smoothing out her already perfect jacket. She reached over the desk and retrieved her glasses.
“Cade,” she whispered. “Did you have something to do with his disappearance? Because if you did, you need to tell your father and me now. You need to let us protect you.” She gave his arm a little squeeze.
Cade stared at her hand. At the perfect cuticles. At the pearlescence of whatever translucent polish she was wearing. At the pinkie nail on her left hand, where she’d chipped it, just slightly.
“Did my father put you up to this?” Cade asked. His throat felt cold and dry.
Dr. Ainsworth, for the smallest sliver of a second, dropped her head. And then she was back. She removed her hand from his arm and sat, still and straight, like a guilty animal.
In the background, Cade listened to the same sound he had since his childhood: the clock on the wall above her bookshelf. Ticking his session by. Audibly slow.
But never more painful than today.
“I’m doing my job, Cade. I need to figure out what’s bothering you. I need to figure out how to reach you.”
Translation: guilty.
“What if I don’t need help?” Cade snapped. “What if I’m perfectly normal, but my father keeps trying to put a finger on the pulse of what sick, psycho shit is lying in wait? And what if, sooner or later, it makes me snap?” Cade clenched his hands into fists and leaned forward on the desk.