The Vampire Obsession

Chapter 9

“Next time you find him, shoot him in the head, to kill, no matter who needs to die for that to happen.” He arched an eyebrow, authoritative. “Are we clear?”

The implication in his unspoken words made the hairs on my body stand on end. For a moment, I just blinked at him.

“Yes, boss,” I mocked at last, shrugging.

He nodded, indifferent, although the smile that opened on his lips when he heard the name I called him did not go unnoticed. Alan slapped the back of my car.

“Welcome to the hunt for the Grimwood Ripper, Investigator Cross.”

“Wait, investigator?” I shouted, unable to hide my enthusiasm.

But Alan had already turned his back on me and was walking toward his own vehicle with his hands in his pockets.

"Miss Cross?"

I diverted my gaze from the magazine in my hands to the man in front of me. In a polished office located in a commercial building in downtown Grimwood, was the so-called Dr. Rayson. With a door open for me and a courteous smile on his face.

And what a beautiful face. I had to admit to myself, despite my discomfort with the whole situation that I was forced to participate in.

The man wore dark social clothes, his black hair was meticulously combed back, his cheekbones were angular, as well as his jaw sculpted in a sharp manner. He had glasses with a heavy frame on his face.

Which made him exactly my type of man.

That would be a terrible idea.

"You may come in." He opened the door even more so that I could pass.

I placed the magazine on the coffee table and stood up from the sofa on which I had been sitting for the last ten minutes.

"Excuse me," I murmured while passing by him and entering his office.

It was welcoming and organized, with a soft and warm light, wooden furniture and an extensive dark wooden bookshelf that displayed psychology books and small decorative objects.

I sat down on a comfortable sofa, positioned in front of an armchair where I presumed he sat for the sessions.

"What brought you to me, Miss Cross?" he asked as soon as I was comfortable in my seat.

"Call me just Evelyn, please."

He smiled in a friendly way.

"What brought you to me?"

I decided to go straight to the point.

"Sheriff Alan."

"He recommended my service?"

It was more like "pointed a gun at my head and forced me to schedule an appointment."

"You could say that."

"And have you done therapy before?" Dr. Rayson looked at me patiently.

"Yes, it is kind of necessary to act in my field area."

"And what do you work with?"

"I am an academic criminologist, but at the moment I am helping in the investigation of the Grimwood Ripper."

"Why did you choose this area of work?" He leaned forward in his armchair, interested.

"You are new here, aren't you?" I questioned, intrigued.

"Why the question?"

"My father was the former sheriff of the city. He was killed by the Ripper while investigating his murders."

"My sincere condolences." His tone was predictable and empathetic like that of everyone who already told me the same thing. "Was the death of your father what made you return to therapy?"

I had been in therapy many times in the last years. But I could not attend the appointments for long, I always ended up giving up in the middle of the way before making any progress. I never found a psychologist with whom I fit. Not to mention how painfully tedious it was to introduce myself again every time I decided to return to therapy.

With the passing of time, I simply gave up looking for help.

However, that was not what I told him.

"Alan forced me to do psychological follow-up to work on the case."

"And why do you want to work on this case?"

Was it not obvious?

But therapy was about that. Clarifying the obvious, putting my thoughts out so that the other could analyze them and understand me better.

Except that while the man in front of me was analyzing me psychologically, I was also analyzing him.

So I gave Dr. Rayson what he wanted.

"I need to capture him. He killed my father, killed other people and will continue killing if he is not stopped."

"So that is what motivates you to participate in the hunt for the Ripper?"

"What else would it be?" I shot, disdainful.

Dr. Rayson shrugged with an indifferent air.

"Revenge," he declared. "Perhaps by stopping him, you feel that you avenged the death of your father and did your justice. Before embarking on a journey of revenge, dig two graves."

"Confucius." I smiled when recognizing the quotation of the Chinese philosopher. "But I am more inclined to the line of thought of Francis Bacon. Revenge is a kind of wild justice."

"This quotation has more than one interpretation, it tends to weigh both to good and to evil. Perhaps more to the heinous. You do not seem averse to the idea of imposing justice with your own hands, Miss Cross."

"It is because I am not," I shot, and swallowing the tired sigh that almost left me, I insisted again, "And call me Evelyn, please."

"Have you ever been in a situation in which you resorted to this philosophy?"

Violent images burst in my mind against my consent.

My hands dirty with blood.

A knife between my fingers.

A body at my feet.

I was unable to contain the emotions that crossed me. I shuddered in the armchair.

"I am not here to talk about my past. Only my work. As my boss guided and you already know." My answer came sharp, as intended.

However, the courteous mask of Dr. Rayson did not undo when analyzing my reactions.

As Alan told me, he was good in his work.

But I was too.

"What would you like to talk about?"

"It depends." I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees. "How much of what I am going to speak in this room will remain only between us?"

"Absolutely everything that you tell me."

That made me lean back against the upholstery of the sofa. I narrowed my eyes at him in challenge. Would Dr. Rayson be a man of word?

There was only one way to discover.

"Then I want to talk about the Ripper."

The doctor nodded. There was no alteration on his face, but I noticed the brief change behind his lenses. The way his eyes sparked with interest. He also wanted that I changed the direction of the conversation to that subject. Who would not want? It was the most interesting topic in that mediocre city.

"How long have you dedicated yourself to capturing him?"

"For a good time." I turned my attention to the ceiling, as if I needed that cheap resource to remember what was already impregnated in my mind like a disease. "Five years, to be more precise."

"Do you think a lot about it?"

"All the time."

"You desire to capture him and kill him. Obsessively."

"It is part of my work," I contested, apathetic and indifferent.

"Before that becoming your work, you already desired it. You wrote articles about the crimes of the Ripper and gave your report as the only survivor of him. You have been studying him after the death of your father."

He knows so much.

I tried not to demonstrate appearing as surprised as I felt.

I hoped my face was a mask as good as that of the man in front of me.

"Good to know someone did your research."

"I did not read your work, I only heard superficially, if that is what you are asking yourself. It would be unethical of my part. I prefer to know my patients by myself." He smiled, however, before I could get used to the vision, his smile had faded. "Your obsession with the Ripper is consuming your life."

As if responding to his words, the wound on my arm chose that moment to begin to throb and burn. All the pain that I did not feel at the moment of the stabbing came to the surface now.

I needed to find a way to take my painkiller as soon as possible.

"I am not obsessed with him," I refuted, trying not to exalt myself while shifting in the armchair. Uncomfortable in my own skin. "I am obsessed with capturing him, there is a big difference, doctor."