The Fear Dissertation // A Jonathan Crane Dark Romance

19

Doctor Crane asks me, "How have you been, Sienna?"

He approaches with the heart rate monitors, the blood pressure cuff. The walnut paneling of his office glows in the late afternoon sun, each strip of gold spilling through the windows and catching the barest specks of dust in the air.

I open my mouth to answer, but Doctor Crane chooses that moment to deliberately — almost clinically — slip the top button of my shirt free. His fingers brush against my collarbone, the heart rate monitor cool against my skin.

My stomach swoops like I've jumped out of a plane.

"Fine," I manage to stutter.

The monitor gives a sharp beep, and we both glance as the tracking line spikes, creating a neat succession of tall, thin triangles where my heart rate has increased. Oh my god.

It's impossible to calm myself down with so much embarrassment flooding through me.

"I think you're forgetting I can see when you're lying," Doctor Crane says, looking me in the eye and waiting for an answer.

Lying? I blink. Then remember his question, and my not-so-honest answer. I have no choice now but to confide in him somewhat — it's that or confess why my heart rate really spiked. And the longer I wait, the more chance he could realise how neatly it coincided with our physical contact.

"There's a trial," I blurt out. "For Matt's death. Rachel Dawes is prosecuting."

"I see." He raises an eyebrow slightly, finishes fastening the monitors, all the while maintaining his infuriatingly composed demeanour. "I thought Oldham already confessed."

"He did, but someone somewhere isn't happy with that answer." I frown slightly. "How do you know about Oldham?"

"I keep up with the news, Sienna," he says evenly.

"I didn't realise they'd released his name."

Doctor Crane pulls away slightly. "Are you worried about the trial?" He inquires casually, as though we're discussing the weather.

"I wouldn't say worried," I say, feeling the need to at least attempt to meet his calmness. "Concerned might be the better word."

But Jonathan chuckles softly, his eyes flashing as he sees right through me. "Ah, yes, concerned. That's definitely a more clinical term, isn't it?"

I glare at him. Not appreciating the sarcasm. "Not all of us can be as detached as a certain head psychiatrist I know."

He tilts his head slightly, gaze piercing through me. "Detachment is an invaluable skill in my line of work." Then, "Don't worry about the trial. I doubt they'll even call you to the stand."

"You sound awfully confident."

"I have ways of knowing these things. I'll speak with the prosecutor myself, if I have to."

"No." A sharp beep from the heart rate monitor. "Don't... Don't do that."

He glances at me, puzzled by my reaction. "You don't want my help?"

"I do. Of course I do. But Rachel Dawes is..." I swallow. "She came by to see Karlo yesterday. And she said some things." I hesitate, not wanting to upset Doctor Crane. "Insinuating she thinks you're helping some of the criminals."

Doctor Crane doesn't appear offended. In fact, he doesn't appear to care at all what Rachel Dawes thinks — but he does glance once more to the heart monitor.

"This distresses you," he says quietly.

"I don't believe her. I've had enough aspersions cast on me lately not to trust the prosecutors of Gotham. But I don't..." I swallow. Heat floods my cheeks, and the heart monitor beeps so loud, I tug the stupid pieces of plastic from my chest. The machine flatlines. "I don't want anything to happen to you," I say quietly.