Page 1 of Tricked By Jack
Chapter 1
The Trickster
February
Ikill the incoming call, Nick’s name flashing for the third time today. I’m not in the mood for having my brother check up on me. I have more pressing matters—like what’s behind the door of Mortis Psychotherapy in front of me.
It’s been two weeks since we buried Ruby, and here I am. Eve canceled my original appointment last week, but I’m not letting anything get in the way of this one.
The waiting room is a shrine to false comfort. Every chair spaced with surgical precision, magazines fanned like they were measured with a ruler. The kind of order that makes you itch.
Someone—Eve Mortis, no doubt—has thought about every detail, every angle, every impression. It makes my teeth ache, and as I take a seat facing the door to the inner offices, I purposefully graze a few of the chairs so their formation is less pristine.
This is exactly the kind of place where people cry in whispers and mirrors never show what you want them to.
Myhand slips into my jacket pocket, fingers brushing against the folded edge of Ruby’s funeral program. By now, the paper has softened from my constant handling, and the ink’s fading where my thumb rests against her name.
Even though every word and photo is burned into my memory, I keep it close. My sister’s smiling face is a better picture than the mental one I can’t shake. The one of her dying right in front of me.
I’m saved from the agonizing trip down memory lane of how I killed Ruby when I notice the receptionist, Naya, watching me from behind the counter. She smiles like it’s policy. Polished warmth, one-size-fits-all.
“First time here?” she asks, voice pitched to carry just to my ears, despite the empty waiting room.
“Is it that obvious?” I make my voice even. Like I’m not one breath away from losing my shit. And like I didn’t spend the entire night alone with my new best friends Señor Tequila and my namesake Mr. Jack Daniels.
“Either you’re too much in a rush to read…” She gestures to the sign on the wall I ignored. The one that states you need to announce your presence to the receptionist. “… or you’re rude. I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt.”
I offer a practiced and soft smile. “My bad. I’m sorry about that. I’m Jack Knight—”
She waves me off. “I remember you from when you made your appointment,” she says softly. “Dr. Mortis will be with you shortly.”
Just as she says that, a woman emerges from the inner corridor, her eyes both steely and red-rimmed. She keeps her gaze down as she slides a credit card across to Naya, murmuring something I can’t hear.
Another broken person, leaving Dr. Mortis’ office, probably no more fixed than when she entered. I wonder if she’ll even make it to her car before the temporary relief of confession fades.
This is what Eve Mortis does. She listens, nods, and offers practiced empathy in fifty-minute increments. And people leave thinking they’ve been helped, never suspecting they’ve just paid to have their wounds cataloged by someone who studies emotions like others study art.
I wonder if her eyes ever glaze over while someone sobs about the worstnight of their life. If she files trauma away like recipes—one pinch of loss, two of betrayal, stir with remorse.
After two weeks of researching her online, I’ve learned a lot about Eve Mortis. I could recite her academic credentials, which are no small feats. According to every file I’ve been able to track down, Eve Mortis is a goddamn prodigy.
She graduated high school at fifteen, and finished NYU Grossman School of Medicine at twenty-two. Which explains how she was licensed to open her clinic at only twenty-six. She’s the only child of the late Charles Mortis, who was born Pearson, but changed his last name to stand out more.
On paper, her lineage and achievements make her untouchable. I don’t believe it, though. No one’s squeaky clean. Eve has skeletons in her closet just like everyone else. I’d shadow her dad or outright ask him if I could. But he died years ago.
If the rumors are to be believed, he was killed by the Hunter. It’s a pretty story, though I doubt it's real. After all, what kind of twisted person would give therapy to their dad’s killer?
None of that matters today. What I’ve come here to discover—is whether she feels anything at all behind those carefully constructed walls.
Naya’s voice pulls me from my thoughts. “Mr. Knight? Dr. Mortis is ready for you.”
I stand, smoothing my tailored jacket with practiced ease. My shoes make no sound on the carpet as I follow Naya down the hallway. The corridor smells different from the waiting room—less synthetic, more human.
“First sessions are usually just getting to know each other,” Naya says over her shoulder. She says it like this is a place for healing. “Dr. Mortis is very good at helping people who are struggling.”
“I’m sure she is,” I reply, allowing just enough rawness into my voice to suggest vulnerability. Inside, I feel nothing but the growing anger and hatred for Eve motherfucking Mortis.
Naya stops at a door, knocks twice, and opens it without waiting for a response. “Dr. Mortis, this is Jack Knight.”
