I showed up to the second session with the notebook clutched to my chest like a bomb.
Seventy-three pages.
Seventy-three pages of me finally telling the truth.
He opened the door himself. No receptionist, no buffer. Just him in a black shirt, sleeves rolled higher this time, the scars on his forearms catching the low light. He didn't speak. He simply stepped aside and let me in.
The room felt different today. The blinds were half-drawn. One lamp burned amber behind his chair. The air smelled faintly of leather and something darker.
I handed him the notebook. My fingers shook.
He didn't take it right away. He looked at my face first, then down at the tremor in my hands, then at the way my thighs pressed together under the coat.
"Sit," he said.
I sat.
He took the
