Chapter 9: The Therapist's Couch
The stiletto heel came down on the polished hardwood with a click that Tom felt in his teeth.
He watched it happen from the leather couch—the sharp point of Annalise's shoe descending, the barely perceptible crunch, the way she didn't even look down. Just crossed her legs and kept her eyes on the framed credentials hanging on the far wall.
Dr. Ramirez noticed. Of course she noticed. She noticed everything.
"Annalise," she said, her voice warm and unhurried, "what did you just step on?"
Annalise glanced down. Her heel had left a small smear on the floor—something brown and flattened, legs splayed in a starburst pattern.
"A cricket," she said. "I think."
"You think."
"It's definitely a cricket. I saw it when we walked in."
"And you waited until now to kill it?"
Annalise's jaw tightened. She uncrossed her legs, then crossed them again. "It was in my way."
Tom said nothing. His hands were folded in his lap, his knuckles white. He hadn't slept well in six days. Not since the surgical theater. Not since the spiders.
Dr. Ramirez leaned back in her armchair. She was in her mid-forties, with silver-streaked hair pulled back in a loose knot and eyes that missed nothing. Her office smelled like lavender and old books and something else—something clean and clinical underneath, like the ghost of hand sanitizer.
"Tom," she said. "You've been quiet."
He shrugged. The couch creaked beneath him.
"That's not an answer."
"I don't know what to say."
"Try starting with why you're here."
He looked at Annalise. She was staring at the wall again, her profile sharp and closed. Three days ago, she had asked him what was wrong. He hadn't been able to tell her. Two days ago, she had found the therapy appointment card in his jacket pocket. She hadn't been angry. She had just looked at him with those dark eyes and said, Okay. I'll come.
But now she was here, and she wasn't really here. She was somewhere else. Somewhere behind her own face.
"I've been distant," Tom said finally. "Since last week."
"Since the surgical theater."
"Yes."
"Can you tell me what happened there?"
He felt the heat rise in his chest. The memory was still vivid—the cold steel, the falling spiders, the taste of copper on his tongue. Annalise's hands on his throat. Her voice in his ear.
"I'd rather not."
"Okay." Dr. Ramirez nodded, unbothered. "Then tell me how you felt afterward."
"Good." The word came out too fast. "In the moment. It felt good."
"And after?"
He didn't answer.
Annalise shifted beside him. The leather creaked. "He stopped touching me," she said. Her voice was flat, stripped of inflection. "After that night. He kisses me goodnight, and then he rolls over."
"That's not true," Tom said.
"It's true enough."
"I just—" He stopped. Started again. "I needed some space."
"From me?"
"From everything."
Dr. Ramirez watched them both. Her expression was neutral, but her eyes were sharp. "Annalise," she said, "how did you feel about what happened in the surgical theater?"
Annalise laughed. It was a short, ugly sound. "I felt amazing. That's the problem, isn't it?"
"Why is that a problem?"
"Because he didn't." She gestured at Tom without looking at him. "Look at him. He's been walking around like a ghost for a week. So either I did something wrong, or he's ashamed of me. Or himself. Or both."
"That's not—"
"Then what is it, Tom?" She finally turned to face him. Her eyes were bright, wet at the edges. "Tell me. Because I've been trying to figure it out, and I can't."
He opened his mouth. Closed it.
The silence stretched.
Dr. Ramirez broke it. "Let's back up," she said. "Tom, you mentioned on the phone that you've been experiencing something new. Something you didn't expect. Can you tell me about that?"
He looked at his hands. The knuckles were still white.
"It started with the moths," he said. "In her apartment. She killed one, and I felt—" He paused. "I felt something."
"What kind of something?"
"Arousal."
The word hung in the air. Annalise didn't move.
"Was that the first time?"
"No. But it was the first time I noticed."
"And how did you feel about noticing?"
"Confused. Ashamed." He laughed, hollow. "It's not exactly something you bring up over dinner."
"You brought it up to her eventually."
"Yeah."
"How did that go?"
He looked at Annalise. She was watching him now, really watching him, her expression unreadable.
"She didn't run," he said. "She was curious. Interested. She wanted to explore it with me."
"And you did."
"We did."
"The surgical theater."
"Yes."
Dr. Ramirez turned to Annalise. "What did you feel during that experience?"
Annalise was quiet for a long moment. When she spoke, her voice was softer than before. "Powerful," she said. "Seen. Like I could be this version of myself—the version I usually keep hidden—and he wouldn't flinch. He'd want it."
"And after?"
"I wanted more." She paused. "I still want more."
"But Tom pulled away."
"Yes."
"Do you understand why?"
"No." The word was sharp. "That's why we're here."
Dr. Ramirez nodded slowly. She reached for a notebook on the side table, flipped it open, and wrote something down. The scratch of her pen was loud in the quiet room.
"I want to ask you both something," she said. "And I want you to answer honestly. Not for me. For each other."
She looked at Tom first.
"What does the killing give you?"
He frowned. "I don't—"
"Not the insects," she said. "The killing. The act itself. What do you get from watching her do it?"
He forced himself to think. Really think. The moths. The beetles. The tarantula. The spiders. Annalise's hands, her feet, her teeth. The sounds. The smells. The way she looked at him afterward, like he was the only person in the world who understood.
"Permission," he said finally.
"To do what?"
"To want her." He swallowed. "All of her. Even the parts that scare me."
"And what scares you?"
"That I like it. That I want it. That maybe I've always wanted it, and I just didn't know."
Dr. Ramirez turned to Annalise. "What does it give you?"
Annalise didn't hesitate. "Control," she said. "When I kill something, I decide when it ends. I decide how. There's no ambiguity. No negotiation. It's just... mine."
"And Tom's presence? How does that factor in?"
She looked at him. Her expression softened, just a fraction. "He makes it okay," she said. "When I'm alone, I feel guilty. Like I'm broken. But when he's watching, I feel like I'm not alone. Like maybe I'm not broken. Maybe I'm just... different."
Tom felt something loosen in his chest.
Dr. Ramirez wrote something else. Then she set the pen down and leaned forward.
"Here's what I'm hearing," she said. "You both have a desire that most people would call unusual. But it's not harming anyone. The insects are a gray area—I'm not going to pretend they're not—but they're not humans, and they're not pets, and you're not torturing them for fun. You're expressing something that lives inside both of you."
She paused.
"The question isn't whether this is healthy. The question is whether you're both still choosing it—or whether it's choosing you."
Tom frowned. "What's the difference?"
"Choice means you can stop. You can take a break, step back, and still feel connected to each other. Compulsion means you can't. It means the dynamic is the only thing holding you together, and without it, you fall apart."
She looked at Annalise.
"Which one do you think it is?"
Annalise's jaw tightened. She didn't answer.
Dr. Ramirez leaned back. "Here's what I want you to do. One week. No insects. No hunting. No killing. Just the two of you, together, doing normal things. Dinner. Movies. Walks. Whatever you'd do if this part of your relationship didn't exist."
"That's it?" Tom said.
"That's it."
"And if we can't do it?"
"Then you'll have your answer."
Annalise stood up. Her heel made another sound against the floor—sharp, final. "This is bullshit," she said.
Dr. Ramirez didn't flinch. "Maybe. But it's your bullshit. You're the ones who have to live with it."
Annalise stared at her. Then she looked at Tom. Her eyes were hard, but underneath the hardness, he saw something else. Fear.
"Fine," she said. "One week."
She walked out of the office without looking back.
Tom stayed seated for a moment. Dr. Ramirez watched him.
"She's scared," she said quietly.
"I know."
"Are you?"
He thought about it. The week ahead. The silence. The distance. Annalise without her outlet, him without his.
"Yeah," he said. "I am."
"Good." Dr. Ramirez smiled. "That means you're still paying attention."
He stood up. At the door, he paused.
"What if we can't do it?"
"Then you'll have to decide what that means."
He nodded. Then he walked out, into the hallway, where Annalise was waiting by the elevator. Her arms were crossed. Her jaw was set.
"You ready?" he said.
She looked at him. For a moment, neither of them spoke.
"No," she said.
The elevator dinged.
They stepped inside together.