He presses his body to mine and kisses me, his lips firm. Insistent. It’s a kiss of lust. Of a man wanting a woman.

Except I’m not that woman tonight.

I gently push him away. “I’m not in the mood.”

He frowns at my sudden rejection. “What do you mean?”

“I told you. I just want to relax tonight.”

“Are you fucking serious?”

I cross my arms. “Yeah, I’m fucking serious.”

Mason studies me, his gaze narrowing. Intensifying. I scrutinize him in return, my brain rapidly firing data through my synapses, giving me insight in seconds. The slight furrow of his brow, an almost imperceptible crease, signals anger brewing beneath the surface. Then his eyes darken with intent.

This swift, but significant, change puts me on edge. However, I don’t take a step back as instinct demands. I hold position, my stance challenging.

Mere seconds feel like hours as I wait for him to react.

Mason clears his throat in a deliberate effort to regain composure. A quick shake of his head follows as though he’s attempting to dismiss troubling thoughts or aggressive impulses that have momentarily broken through his usual demeanor. I squint at him when he squares his shoulders and fists his hands at his sides, a clear sign of suppressed aggression.

While never taking my eyes from him, I grab my abandoned glass and take a sip. If need be, I’ll chuck the water in his face to snap him out of whatever emotional state he’s in.

Mason blows out a breath. “You’re such a bitch, you know that?”

I shrug. “Maybe I am, but did you really think you could show up unannounced and try to fuck me? Because that’s just what happened. I told you twice that I’m not having sex tonight, so you don’t have the right to be pissed.”

“I don’t know why I try with you.” He glares at me. “You’re obviously not worth my time.”

“Go home.”

He grabs his jacket and stalks toward the door. I don’t say goodbye. But I also refrain from saying “fuck you.” A win in my book.

A few seconds later he slams the door shut. I roll my eyes and walk over to lock it.

Another “relationship” down the drain.

Not that I put much effort into it. However, I can’t deny it’s a pattern too familiar, too predictable.

I exhale deeply, the tension slowly draining from my shoulders as I retreat into the solitude that has become my fortress.

It’s not just Mason, or the ones before him. It’s a series of emotional barricades that I’ve meticulously constructed over the years. Men come and go, their presence temporary and their impact minimal. I find myself unable to forge anything deeper than superficial attachments, an emotional aloofness that I wear like armor.

Something I’ve both cursed and cherished.

As I pour myself a glass of wine, the bitter truth settles in: My inability to emotionally connect isn’t just a facet of my personality. It’s a scar, a deep-seated residue from the trauma of my childhood. The murder of my parents, a brutal and senseless act, left me orphaned and alone, thrusting me into a world devoid of warmth. That coldness settled deep within me, shaping my interactions, freezing the potential for genuine intimacy.

It also created my need to understand the criminal mind. To understand how someone could rape, torture, and then brutally murder two innocent people.

Living through such horror at a young age, I learned to shut down, to protect myself from the vulnerabilities that open hearts endure. The fear of losing someone else, the potential of another devastating heartbreak, has kept me at arm’s length from anyone who might stir deeper emotions.

Except my best friend.

I grab my phone and my wine glass before settling on the couch. Then I dial Sarah’s number. She answers on the second ring. Thank goodness.

“What did you do?”

I laugh at her greeting. “I threw Mason out.”

“Again?”

“Again.”

She laughs quietly, a mix of exasperation and amusement clear in her voice. “Geneva, what are you going to do? It’s like a revolving door with you two.”

I take a sip of wine, the rich flavor dancing on my tongue as I consider her words. “I don’t know. It’s always the same with him—or anyone, really. I get bored after a while. Then, I push them away.”

“I know you’re the one with a doctorate, but I hate to tell you that’s unhealthy behavior.”

“I know,” I admit in a whisper.

My gaze drifts to the city outside, the myriad lights a stark contrast to the darkness that feels like it’s creeping in around the edges of my mind. Did I project that same darkness on Mason? Wanting to paint him as an overly aggressive person so I could walk away without a backward glance? Sure, he could be an asshole but he’d never shown a possibility of violence.

“Every time I think I might be able to change, I end up right back here.” I sigh. “Alone.”

“You’re not alone, Gen. You have me.”

I smile, grateful for her understanding. “I know you’re here. And I appreciate it more than you can imagine.” I pause, gathering my nerve to give voice to my question. “How’d you do it?”

“What? Move on after being raped?”

I flinch. “Shit. I’m sorry. I just—”

Sarah cuts me off gently. “No, it’s okay. It’s not something I enjoy doing, but it’s good to talk about it sometimes. Especially with you. If you hadn’t gotten on the witness stand, that asshole would still be on the streets.”

“I wish I could’ve done more.”

There’s a moment of silence as she gathers her thoughts.

“It’s not like there’s a formula, Gen,” she starts, her voice steady. “For a long time, I felt like I couldn’t trust anyone, not even myself. But then I realized, staying stuck in that pain wasn’t what I wanted for my life.

“I started therapy,” she continues. “And I mean really committed to it, not just going through the motions. Which I’m sure you can appreciate, given your occupation.” She chuckles briefly, but then her voice turns serious. “It was difficult, probably the hardest thing I’ve ever done. But over time, it helped me understand that what happened wasn’t my fault, that I didn’t have to let it define my entire existence.”

I nod. Though Sarah can’t see it, her words resonate deeply within me, underscoring the profound difference in our paths to healing. While Sarah has bravely confronted her past, striving to liberate herself from its painful shackles, I’ve chained myself tightly to my trauma, driven by an unyielding obsession to unearth the “why” behind the murders of my parents.

This relentless pursuit has not just been a professional endeavor as a criminal psychologist; it has consumed every facet of my life. Each case I take on, every criminal mind I attempt to decipher, is a desperate search for clues that might illuminate my own dark past. My parents’ unsolved murders aren’t just a haunting memory—they’re the lens through which I view the world, the filter that colors every interaction and decision.

“Remember, Gen, it’s okay to take things one step at a time. You’re not alone. You’ve got me, and I’m not going anywhere.”

“Thanks. I’m here for you too. Well, I better go. Are we still good for a girls’ night when you get back from vacation?”

“Absolutely. I’ll talk to you soon, okay?”

“Sounds good. Bye.”

“Bye, honey.”

After ending the call, my thoughts quickly shift to my upcoming interview, igniting a mix of excitement and fear. Ghost is more than just another case. He’s a puzzle wrapped in an enigma. A brilliant mind and a devastatingly beautiful face, drenched in insanity.

Understanding Ghost is the key to outmaneuvering him. So, how am I supposed to do that when there’s not much to go on?

The logical answer: Go straight to the source.

And pray that I return with my mind sane and my soul intact.