Page 54 of The Therapist

The prosecutor presents the evidence.

A schematic of the Ocean Voyeur, showing the hidden tunnels. Photos of a labyrinth of passageways carved between the walls, louver vents in every room, perfectly placed for watching unseen.

The jury murmurs. The judge’s expression tightens.

I feel sick.

Cooper sits motionless as the testimony is given, his expression unreadable. But when I glance his way, his fingers twitch, and something in his eyes flickers—something dark, something ruined.

The attorney approaches, voice sharp, questions cutting.

“Did you ever suspect he was still watching people?”

I hesitate.

Just for a second.

I feel Cooper’s stare like a knife against my throat.

Say no.

“I—” I clear my throat. “No.”

The lie sits heavy on my tongue.

I don’t dare look at him again.

The trial grinds forward, slow and excruciating, like watching a car veer off the road, knowing the crash is inevitable but powerless to stop it. Every word spoken, every piece of evidence presented, is another crushing blow, another nail sealing his fate.

Then the couple takes the stand.

The man recounts the moment he heard the phone ring—inside the walls. The way he pulled back the vent with shaking hands, expecting nothing, only to find him staring back. Cooper. A specter in the darkness. A ghost who had never left.

A hush falls over the courtroom, thick with unease. The weight of it presses into my chest, making it hard to breathe. I claw at the neckline of my shirt, desperate for air.

Then the verdict.

Guilty.

The word slams into me, brutal and final.

The sentence: five years.

I inhale sharply, but the air catches in my throat. My vision blurs. I should feel relief. I tell myself I should. He won’t drag me under any further. He won’t expose me.

But all I feel is devastation.

The bailiffs move in. The spectators murmur. He stands, spine straight, face unreadable. The handcuffs clink as they cuff him, then, just as they turn him away, his eyes find mine.

There’s no rage. No betrayal.

Only possession.

Like he still owns me. Like he always will.

And the worst part?

I know it, too.

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