The Tease (The Darling Killer Trilogy) Read Online Free
Author: Nikki M. Pill
insurance-based mental health treatment. I flipped through the DSM to Sexual and Gender Identity Disorders. There was no actual code for necrophilia, just Paraphilia, Not Otherwise Specified.
I opened Max’s file and looked at his chart. I picked up my pencil and hesitated.
302.9 Paraphilia NOS (provisional).
Did I want to put that in ink? Did “provisional,” which basically means, “I’m not entirely sure,” make it okay? What if he requested a copy of his records, or what if the insurance company refused to treat him? I came into therapy with these naïve ideas about a never-ending stream of depressed and anxious people I could heal through the therapeutic alliance and unconditional positive regard.
How much Jung do I have to read to make this right?
I focused on the feeling of my breath coming in through my nose and filling my lungs, exhaling from deep in the low belly.
Inhale and exhale. The present is what we have. Katie is okay.
A warm glow started to fill my chest as I thought of her.
Katie made it. It’s going to be okay.
I jumped at the knock on my half-open door.
“Sorry to startle you,” Jeff said. “How’d it go?”
“It was interesting,” I said.
“What happened?” He came in and shut the door, sitting in the space Max had recently vacated.
“Well. He did say something that turned me off.”
He waited. Silence is a good tool.
“Is necrophilia treatable?” I asked.
CHAPTER TWO
T he Cat’s Meow Theater nestled in the Portage Park area of Chicago, on the opposite side of the expressway from trendy and expensive Lakeview, but still just as tedious in rush hour. Route 90, the major route from the northwest suburbs to the city, always crawled after work, especially on Fridays. I usually took Milwaukee Avenue from my job in Niles into the city and cut through Jefferson Park on my way down to Portage Park. It might be a calf-cramp inducing stop-and-go, but 90 could be a parking lot. Walter kept me company.
Walter Donnelly was the narrator on my National Clinical Mental Health Exam study guide CDs. His pleasant baritone accompanied me through traffic jams, interminable freight trains, late-night trips home through deserted city streets, a few two-hour drives home in snow storms, forays to the grocery store, and generally everywhere except the veterinarian. In the latter case, I’d usually have to turn off the CD after a few minutes of Caprice’s howls drowning him out. Usually, though, Walter would recite different scenarios and ask me what I would assess for, then gravely announce the correct answer. Some CDs were litanies of facts that I could, after seven months, recite along with him.
I arrived at the theater with seconds to spare. I mentally blessed Adam again for having an employee and performer parking lot, slung my purse over my shoulder and across my body, wrestled my leopard-print hanging bag and rolling bag out of my trunk, and headed in through the back door.
The Cat’s Meow was the coolest place nobody had ever heard of. It was a 150-seat theater whose owner, Adam, had lovingly renovated to hearken back to the 1920’s theaters in Chicago. The lobby had a gorgeous, embellished tin-tiled ceiling painted in gold, an old-fashioned popcorn stand, and a bar designed to look like a speakeasy. The bar was in an alcove framed in exposed brick and plaster, so it looked as if someone had taken a sledgehammer and torn down the wall into a hidden room. Old movie posters of Errol Flynn, Bette Davis, Clara Bow, and others decorated the walls.
It was almost too cool to stay open. Apparently, Adam did well, but quirky doesn’t always survive in the city, so I hoped for the best.
The back door took me to an alcove from which I could either walk into the wings of the theater or head upstairs to the offices and dressing room. I hauled my bags up the wooden stairs and arrived in the green room, which was directly above the speakeasy.
I blinked as my eyes adjusted from the dim hallway to
I opened Max’s file and looked at his chart. I picked up my pencil and hesitated.
302.9 Paraphilia NOS (provisional).
Did I want to put that in ink? Did “provisional,” which basically means, “I’m not entirely sure,” make it okay? What if he requested a copy of his records, or what if the insurance company refused to treat him? I came into therapy with these naïve ideas about a never-ending stream of depressed and anxious people I could heal through the therapeutic alliance and unconditional positive regard.
How much Jung do I have to read to make this right?
I focused on the feeling of my breath coming in through my nose and filling my lungs, exhaling from deep in the low belly.
Inhale and exhale. The present is what we have. Katie is okay.
A warm glow started to fill my chest as I thought of her.
Katie made it. It’s going to be okay.
I jumped at the knock on my half-open door.
“Sorry to startle you,” Jeff said. “How’d it go?”
“It was interesting,” I said.
“What happened?” He came in and shut the door, sitting in the space Max had recently vacated.
“Well. He did say something that turned me off.”
He waited. Silence is a good tool.
“Is necrophilia treatable?” I asked.
CHAPTER TWO
T he Cat’s Meow Theater nestled in the Portage Park area of Chicago, on the opposite side of the expressway from trendy and expensive Lakeview, but still just as tedious in rush hour. Route 90, the major route from the northwest suburbs to the city, always crawled after work, especially on Fridays. I usually took Milwaukee Avenue from my job in Niles into the city and cut through Jefferson Park on my way down to Portage Park. It might be a calf-cramp inducing stop-and-go, but 90 could be a parking lot. Walter kept me company.
Walter Donnelly was the narrator on my National Clinical Mental Health Exam study guide CDs. His pleasant baritone accompanied me through traffic jams, interminable freight trains, late-night trips home through deserted city streets, a few two-hour drives home in snow storms, forays to the grocery store, and generally everywhere except the veterinarian. In the latter case, I’d usually have to turn off the CD after a few minutes of Caprice’s howls drowning him out. Usually, though, Walter would recite different scenarios and ask me what I would assess for, then gravely announce the correct answer. Some CDs were litanies of facts that I could, after seven months, recite along with him.
I arrived at the theater with seconds to spare. I mentally blessed Adam again for having an employee and performer parking lot, slung my purse over my shoulder and across my body, wrestled my leopard-print hanging bag and rolling bag out of my trunk, and headed in through the back door.
The Cat’s Meow was the coolest place nobody had ever heard of. It was a 150-seat theater whose owner, Adam, had lovingly renovated to hearken back to the 1920’s theaters in Chicago. The lobby had a gorgeous, embellished tin-tiled ceiling painted in gold, an old-fashioned popcorn stand, and a bar designed to look like a speakeasy. The bar was in an alcove framed in exposed brick and plaster, so it looked as if someone had taken a sledgehammer and torn down the wall into a hidden room. Old movie posters of Errol Flynn, Bette Davis, Clara Bow, and others decorated the walls.
It was almost too cool to stay open. Apparently, Adam did well, but quirky doesn’t always survive in the city, so I hoped for the best.
The back door took me to an alcove from which I could either walk into the wings of the theater or head upstairs to the offices and dressing room. I hauled my bags up the wooden stairs and arrived in the green room, which was directly above the speakeasy.
I blinked as my eyes adjusted from the dim hallway to
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