Trained To Kill by Emily Duncan Page A

intelligence and humor. She felt something in her stomach
when he looked at her and if she was being honest with herself, she
felt it in her heart. Interested wasn’t quite the word she needed.
Yearning covered it nicely.
    Stepping out of the shower, she
toweled off quickly and threw on some night clothes. She checked
her search before heading to bed. Nothing so far. She crashed into
bed rolling like an alligator, pulling the blankets with her. She
was out.
    The dream came in the morning just
before waking. It always did. She heard the screams, could feel
them in her chest bursting free when she finally unfroze from the
shock. He had thrown her out the window. Isa bolted up in bed, or
tried to. She was mummified in her blankets which only added to her
panic. She took several deep breaths and calmly extracted
herself.
    She sat on the edge of the bed for
several minutes waiting for her heart to slow. She was used to
these dreams. She got up and walked to the bathroom on unsteady
legs. Washing her face to wake herself up she tried to remember
what she had to do that day. She needed coffee.
    Today must be Wednesday, she thought.
Renée had Saturday and Sunday off if she wished and Wednesdays. She
swung by her office first to check her search and found nothing
appealing. Must be a fake name. Damn. She hated going into battle
without information.
    Finishing her trek to the kitchen Isa
made a pot of coffee. While it was brewing she went to pick up the
gloves and bleach from the night before to put them away and
noticed something that had fallen halfway under the coffee
table.
    It was a chip, like in Vegas. Only it
wasn’t money. It had a picture of a skull with horns and an apple
in its teeth. Weird. It must have fallen out of one those goons’
pockets last night. She dismissed it and put it on the counter.
While leaning against the counter sipping her coffee, she thought
about food and forgot again when she suddenly remembered her
therapy appointment. She ran upstairs to get dressed.
     

Chapter 12
     
    Dr. Maarten Jannsen was from the
Netherlands. He had a strong face, starting to wrinkle, but it
looked good on him. He topped off at 6’3”, and had arctic blue
eyes. He lived with his husband, Jorge, and their two Shar-peis. He
didn’t coddle, pity, or judge, which was exactly what Isa needed in
a therapist.
    They had a standing monthly
appointment. It used to be weekly, but she had gone to London and
they had continued their sessions via Skype. This was the first
in-person meeting in half a year.
    She was actually a little nervous,
since she had just returned from torturing and killing a man. Dr.
Jannsen was very sharp, and Isa didn’t want him sensing anything
off about her behavior. So, why do I keep talking to him, she asked
herself. She really couldn’t answer, except that he was the only
one she had ever told the whole story of her past too. Some, like
Ben and Renée, knew bits and pieces.
    Jannsen was practical and logical and
he offered real advice and mental exercises she used every day. The
few therapists she had tried before had been too ambiguous and
touchy-feely for Isa’s taste.
    His office was in the downstairs study
of his old brownstone on the Upper West Side. It was masculine in
style, but Isa could see some feminine touches in the flowerbeds
outside the window. The furniture was leather and the desk antique
walnut. His gold fountain pen glinted with the midmorning sun. He
made very good money. If Isa’s bill was any indication, he made
enough that he could easily afford a nice private office outside of
his home. He must like the commute, or lack thereof, because he
stayed.
    During their interview phase he told
her he had been there for 15 years and he would never ask her to
talk about anything he wasn’t willing to talk about himself. Isa
had booked her next appointment immediately.
    “ So how was London?”
Jannsen asked, getting settled in his leather wingback.
    Isa never lay back on the