Page 10 of Enthrall Secrets
“If that’s true,” he said, scowling, “and you have members with that kind of power, go ahead and inform them I’m taking them down too.”
“Cookie?” Cameron raised the plate. “They’re home baked.”
“Laced with drugs?”
“That would be unethical.”
“Cole, you can expect to be prosecuted.”
“Perhaps I can offer you a free membership?”
Ethan glared at him. “You have an issue with reality?”
“Let me speak frankly, Ethan. I’m going to run through the reasons why we are so important here.”
“Feel free. Talk away.”
Cameron’s genius was legendary, and having seen the way he worked I’d also learned a few tricks. Still, Ethan wasn’t going to be dissuaded - and if I could see that, so could Cameron.
This would be a waste of time.
“In 1965,” Cameron began, “a small boy in France was locked in a cupboard by his mother. It actually ended up being for the first twelve years of his life, which I’m sure we can both agree was bad. Now, this boy was incredibly smart…”
He was talking about one of my dearest clients, Monsieur Trourville, who continued to have sessions at Enthrall. Our relationship was sacred. I squirmed in my seat, unhappy that his story was being shared with this asshole.
Cameron continued. “As you can imagine, the abuse, which included a great deal of violence, rewired his brain. After his mother’s funeral he continued to live in the same house. He didn’t leave it for another fifteen years. His agoraphobia was debilitating. While he was trapped in that cupboard, he was given a flashlight and some books to read, including an encyclopedia. He read it from cover to cover - memorized the damn thing. His I.Q. is well over 165.”
Ethan scoffed. “So he’s a client now? This place cured him?”
“We did.”
“Are you a doctor?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Psychologist?”
“Psychiatrist.” Cole sipped his coffee. “But I digress. Our client’s treatment was so successful he emigrated here and began working on groundbreaking discoveries. Many of them proving Einstein’s theories. He’s also a great chess partner. Do you play?”
Ethan refused to answer. He leaned back and crossed one leg over the other in relaxed arrogance.
“Well, we know you play the saxophone,” said Cameron.
“Bravo, Cole. You read my bio.”
“I did, and I’m sorry about your wife.”
“So you read tabloid fodder?”
“The L.A. Times ran a piece on you. You like to give drug cartels a run for their money, apparently. But it backfired, so shouldn’t you be in hiding? Under police protection?”
“I don’t run.”
“Quite the risk.”
“Is that a threat?”
“Does it feel like a threat?”
