The Psychiatrist: An absolutely gripping psychological thriller packed with twists, page 27
THE PSYCHIATRIST
WINTER K. WILLIS
CONNECT WITH WINTER
Winter K. Willis is a pseudonym for our two-person writing team. We like to think of it as our band name. We love telling our characters' stories and hope that you enjoy reading them.
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Copyright © 2025 by Winter K. Willis
All rights reserved.
Published by Celestial Bear Publishing
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, events and incidents are the products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
The content of this book is for entertainment only and does not constitute as health, medical, legal or financial advice. Purchasing and/or reading this book does not retain consulting services from the authors in any capacity. For any health-related inquiries, please contact your healthcare providers.
ALSO BY WINTER K. WILLIS
THE ASSISTANT SERIES:
THE ASSISTANT
THE CUSTODIAN
THE JOURNALIST
THE PSYCHIATRIST
THE SEARCH PARTY
THE COUNCILWOMAN
THE COLLECTIVE
STANDALONES:
THE WIFE INSIDE
HOW THE AFFAIR ENDS
BEHIND THE NEIGHBOR’S DOOR
THE PERFECT GIFT
THE PERFECT EX-WIFE
THE LAST CHANCE
CONTENTS
1. Wendy
2. Wendy
3. Wendy
4. Wendy
5. Wendy
6. Wendy
7. Wendy
8. Miriam
9. Miriam
10. Wendy
11. Wendy
12. Wendy
13. Wendy
14. Wendy
15. Wendy
16. Lila
17. Isabel
18. Miriam
19. Isabel
20. Wendy
21. Wendy
22. Wendy
23. Lila
24. Isabel
25. Miriam
26. Miriam
27. Wendy
28. Wendy
29. Wendy
30. Wendy
31. Lila
32. Miriam
33. Wendy
34. Miriam
35. Wendy
36. Lila
37. Wendy
38. Lila
39. Isabel
40. Wendy
41. Lila
42. Wendy
43. Wendy
44. Lila
45. Wendy
46. Lila
47. Wendy
48. Lila
49. Lila
50. Wendy
51. Isabel
52. Elias
53. Miriam
54. Lila
55. Elias
56. Isabel
57. Elias
58. Wendy
59. Lila
60. Miriam
61. Lila
62. Wendy
Also by WINTER K. WILLIS
A Letter From Winter
Connect with Winter
1
WENDY
People love to say I make killers talk. They say it like it’s a magic trick, like I whisper a few clever words and monsters spill their darkest secrets. I see the way their eyes light up when they introduce me at conferences or in interviews. The woman who tamed the beast. They write articles with my name in the title. A couple of true crime podcasts even called me the killer whisperer. I never asked for any of that. At least I’m not a celebrity, just well known in this dark corner of the world. No, being a celebrity would bring the kind of real attention that upsets a person’s privacy and would make what I do impossible.
It doesn’t feel like my life when I read those things. It feels like a story someone made up about another woman who just happens to share my name.
I don’t correct them.
I don’t tell them that every so-called miracle they praise me for comes with a cost. They don’t want to hear about the nights I’ve stared at the ceiling, heart pounding as I replay the words a murderer casually dropped into conversation. They don’t want to know that when I close my eyes, I see flashes of the rooms where those confessions happened.
I’ve become good at giving them what they want. A cool, composed expert with an impenetrable stare. They never see how much of me I’ve had to cut away to become that person.
They also never see the truth.
I am not fearless.
I’m not unshakable.
I am just very good at pretending.
I didn’t start out wanting to be a specialist. In grad school, I imagined a quiet practice. Couples therapy, maybe. Helping families. It sounded nice. Safe. Normal. Then came the case. The one people still whisper about. The one that yanked me into this life and never let me go.
They call it the case I broke. That’s how they tell the story, like I dismantled some terrible thing with nothing but my mind.
That isn’t how it felt.
It comes back in fragments. I don’t let myself live it all at once.
The smell of sweat and stale coffee in the interview room. The way the killer’s hands trembled, and then stilled when he saw I wasn’t flinching. The moment he realized I wasn’t leaving, no matter how long he stayed silent.
The reporters love to say I got inside his head. That I destroyed his defenses. I didn’t. I just waited him out. People like him want to talk, eventually. They want someone to see them. I gave him that until he couldn’t resist giving me what I wanted.
I remember the exact moment he told me where to find her body. His voice was casual, like we were talking about the weather. I felt my stomach drop so hard it almost made me sick, but I kept my face neutral, my tone even. I remember thinking, If I show anything, he’ll stop.
When it was over, when I was alone in my empty apartment again, I sat staring at the wall for hours. My hands on the small table in front of me looked strange, like they belonged to someone else.
That confession was the one they called ‘career-making.’ Within a week, I couldn’t walk into a police station without someone recognizing me.
People thanked me. The families of the victims sent letters. A detective hugged me so tightly I thought he’d break a rib. All I felt was hollow.
They tell the story like I won. It didn’t feel like winning.
Sometimes, I think about the way his eyes lit up when he talked about what he did. I think about how I smiled back at him like it was normal. Like it was a conversation about anything other than torture and death.
That’s my real gift. I can sit across from someone who’s done the worst thing you can imagine and pretend they’re just another person in the world.
It eats away at me.
I don’t tell anyone that part. Not the reporters. Not the detectives who call me in when they’re out of options. Not the students who email me, calling me an inspiration.
It’s easier to let them believe the myth of the brilliant psychiatrist who gets into the heads of killers and makes them tell me their darkest secrets.
That mask has served me well. It lets me get through the day. It also keeps people from asking questions I don’t want to answer.
However, sometimes I wonder what would happen if I took it off. If I let them see how much it costs me.
I don’t think they’d like me as much.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath, willing the memories to quiet down. My office is dark except for the soft light of my laptop screen. Another email notification pings. I don’t need to look to know what it is. Another reporter. Another podcast. Another person who wants me to talk about what I do, like it’s a party trick.
I click my tongue against my teeth and shut the laptop.
Enough for tonight.
I stand and stretch, feeling my muscles protest after too many hours in the same position. My apartment is quiet. The hum of the refrigerator fills the silence. It’s comforting, in a way.
Except it doesn’t feel like enough.
I’ve been locking my doors more often. Checking the windows twice. Sometimes, I catch myself scanning the street before I get into my car, searching for faces I don’t recognize.
I tell myself it’s just caution, but I know better.
There are men out there who don’t want me to walk away from what I know about them. Men who didn’t like that I got them to talk.
Sometimes, I think I can feel their eyes on me, even when I’m alone.
That’s the thing about doing what I do. You spend enough time staring into the dark, and eventually, you start to wonder if it’s staring back.
2
WENDY
The coffee tastes burnt, but I don’t mind. It’s part of the charm. The diner isn’t new or trendy or trying to impress anyone. It has old vinyl booths, scratched tables, and a cracked tile floor that hasn’t been replaced in twenty years. It smells faintly of bacon grease and industrial cleaner. No one here knows who I am. No one here cares. That’s why I come.
I pick at the corner of a laminated menu, my lecture notes spread across the table. Next week I’m supposed to stand in front of a room full of grad students and talk about the psychology of the confession. They’ll hang onto every word. Some will think about how they can use my strategies. Others will just want to see if I look like the woman in the articles.
The coffee’s too hot when I sip it, and I let it burn my tongue. Better to focus on that than the email sitting unread in my inbox from a podcast producer who calls me The Criminal Profiler Next Door. That isn’t even what I do.
I’m halfway through highlighting a paragraph when the voice startles me.
“Dr. Rhodes.”
I look up, my hand still on the highlighter.
A man is sitting across from me. He wasn’t there a second ago. I didn’t hear the door open. He didn’t ask to sit. He just slid into the booth like he’d been invited.
He’s in his forties, maybe early fifties. Brown hair with more gray than not. Clean-shaven. His suit is dark and nondescript, the kind of thing you buy off the rack when you want to look professional without standing out. He’s average height and build, average features. The kind of face you’d forget the moment you looked away. And yet, somehow, I suspect I won’t get a chance to forget this one.
“Do I know you?” My voice is even. Always even.
He smiles, polite and pleasant, but his smile doesn’t touch his eyes. “Not yet.”
I glance toward the counter. The waitress is topping off coffee for a man in a trucker hat two booths down. No one that could take note that a strange man has just sat down beside me.
“You’re sitting at my table,” I say.
“I am.” He doesn’t apologize.
I close my notes, sliding them into a neat stack. “Why?”
“My boss sent me.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Your boss?”
“He’s very wealthy,” he says. “Very powerful. And very aware of your work. He wants to meet you.”
I lean back slightly, studying him. I mentally catalog everything. “You tracked me down to… what? Offer me a job?” I set my coffee cup down, keeping my fingers loose so he can’t see they’re starting to tremble. “You can’t just ambush people.”
“This couldn’t wait. My employer doesn’t use official channels.”
I suppress a laugh. “Then he doesn’t want my help very badly.”
“On the contrary,” the man says. “He wants it badly enough to send me here in person. He needs your skill set, and he needs it now.”
There it is. The shift. He’s said this line before, probably to other people who also told him no.
“Why me?”
“You know why,” he says simply, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
My stomach tightens. “I’m not interested.”
“You haven’t even heard the offer.”
“I don’t need to.”
“He’ll give you whatever you want,” the man says. “Unlimited resources. First-class accommodations. You won’t have to lift a finger for anything except doing what you do best. All expenses covered. Any tools you need.”
“I don’t do house calls.”
His smile deepens just a little. “You will for him.”
“No,” I say, sharper now.
“You don’t even know what he’s asking.”
“Exactly.” I grip my coffee mug to steady myself.
He leans in, elbows resting lightly on the table, lowering his voice. “This isn’t optional. He’s prepared to leave as soon as you are.”
“Leave?”
“There’s a jet waiting.”
My brain clicks into overdrive. I glance at the door. Did he follow me here? How long has he been watching me?
“I’m not going anywhere with you,” I say, crossing my arms.
He doesn’t flinch. “You will.”
“No,” I say, firmer. “I won’t.”
“Do you know who I am?”
“Should I?”
“No.” He smiles again, but it’s empty. “That’s the point.”
My pulse pounds in my ears. I keep my breathing steady, counting in my head. One. Two. Three. Keep control.
“You’re being inappropriate,” I say, enunciating each word. “You need to leave.”
He watches me for a beat too long, then shrugs like none of this matters.
“I’ll let my boss know,” he says finally, standing.
It sounds like a promise, or a threat.
He buttons his jacket with careful, deliberate movements and walks out of the diner without glancing back.
I don’t move. My fingers are locked around the coffee mug, the ceramic gone cold.
The waitress passes by with the pot. “You all right, hon?”
“Yeah,” I say automatically. “Fine.”
I’m not fine.
I replay every detail. His posture, his tone, his hands, and the way his eyes didn’t blink enough. I know I’ll see him again. People like that don’t make one visit.
My instinct is to call someone. Maybe a friend or a detective I know, but what would I even say? A man in a suit offered me a mysterious trip on a private jet? They’d tell me to forget about it.
I glance out the window. A dark sedan is parked across the street. It wasn’t there when I came in. The windows are tinted. I can’t tell if anyone’s inside.
I shove my notes into my bag and pull out my phone. No new messages. No missed calls.
The waitress waves from the counter. “Have a good day.”
I manage a smile.
By the time I step outside, the sedan is gone.
The cold air bites my skin, but I barely notice.
I tell myself it was nothing. A strange encounter. A creepy man. That’s all.
However, his last words echo in my head as I walk to my car.
I’ll let my boss know.
It shouldn’t bother me. It does.
I start the engine and pull out of the lot.
By the time I reach the first stoplight, I’ve convinced myself I’m overreacting, but the feeling lingers, crawling under my skin.
The sense that saying no was a mistake.
3
WENDY
The walls of the interview room are beige. They always are. Same neutral paint, same scarred table, same fluorescent light buzzing overhead. I could be anywhere in the country, and these rooms would look identical. I wonder if that’s intentional, if they make these places as bland as possible to make people forget where they are.
It doesn’t work on me.
I take a seat across from him. His name is Kenneth Rourke. Forty-one. Burglary, assault, and suspected of worse. He’s bigger than me by a lot, broad-shouldered with a shaved head and a jaw that looks like it could crack concrete. His file says he put two men in the hospital during a bar fight. I look at him and think of the waitress who called me hon this morning, as if my life was normal.
It’s not normal.
He leans back in the metal chair as if it’s his home. He doesn’t look nervous, but I see the way his foot taps under the table. An outlet for energy he doesn’t want to show me. He thinks he’s in control.
I can work with that.
“So you’re supposed to be special?” He asks, smirking. “You don’t seem it.”
I don’t answer.
I take out my folder and flip it open. I always do this part slowly, like I have all the time in the world. He watches my hands.
“You know why you’re here?” I ask.
His smirk deepens. “I’m guessing it’s not to talk about the weather.”
“Why don’t you tell me what happened?”
“Nothing happened.”
I glance at the file. “You broke into a woman’s apartment.”
His foot stops tapping.
“Allegedly. And maybe she left the door unlocked,” he says.
“That doesn’t give you permission.”
“Didn’t take anything.”
“You left bruises on her arms.”
His jaw flexes. “She came at me first.”
“She weighs one hundred and ten pounds,” I say, furrowing my brows.
