Director

“Everyone,” Mayor Allister said, projecting his voice to the room.

Conversations faltered, and heads turned. The mayor smiled, and the room fell silent.

Standing on his right and just behind, Helena scanned the faces. When he spoke, the two dozen men and women listened. He’d commanded the room with a single word, unlike his therapy sessions, where doubt and conditioned responses bent the confident posture into need and eagerness for Helena’s voice. She had made herself a narcotic for the man who could silence a room by clearing his throat.

“Thank you for coming,” the mayor said, then turned and gestured to Helena. “And my most heartfelt thanks to Dr. Webb, the new director of Selene Asylum.”

Helena touched the mayor’s shoulder. He’d begun to speak but faltered.

“Interim director,” Helena corrected.

A dreamy softness in his eyes sharpened, and he looked out. “Of course, Interim, but—” he held up a hand. “Dr. Webb’s private practice keeps her untouched by city government. The best way for something to last forever is to call it interim.”

Laughter rippled. When it faded, the mayor raised his glass.

“To our,” he looked at Helena, “interim director.”

They drank the toast, then applauded. After an expectant pause, the mayor turned back to Helena. The crowd, seeing his remarks had ended, resumed their conversations.

“See,” he said. “That wasn’t so bad.”

Helena raised an eyebrow. “It’s not over yet.”

Tilting his head, he made a mocking gesture of sympathy. “I think you’ll manage.”

As he smiled, his eyes drifted from her face to her hair. She’d worn it up, and his gaze lingered before finding the loose tendrils she’d left to fall along her neck. Helena tilted her head, letting the hair caress her throat. The mayor’s breathing caught.

Her white cotton blouse was tailored to her body. He looked from her throat to her collar before finding the neckline. His gaze hesitated where the fabric gave way to her skin. He swallowed.

He leaned close and whispered. The confident voice had tightened. “I hope this doesn’t violate the patient-client relationship, but you’re stunning.”

His face vulnerable, Helena waited a beat, just long enough for a hint of doubt to cross his features.

“Thank you, Mr. Mayor,” she replied.

Relieved, the mayor scanned the reception. The chair of the city council raised a hand and caught the mayor’s eye. Nodding, the mayor returned to Helena, eyes tracing over her gown.

“You’ll be ok?”

“I’ll manage,” Helena replied.

Left alone, Helena cataloged faces. Six of the twelve city council members had come. Two were clients. Flitting between conversational huddles, a reporter from the daily Star glad-handed and glanced in Helena’s direction. She smiled. Not able to hold her gaze, he looked to the floor.

Her black pencil skirt reached mid-calf with matching hose and shoes. Her heels were glossy patent leather. As the reporter looked, Helena turned her ankle, letting the light play over the surface of the shoes.

The reporter froze. Helena looked to the crowd and saw Charles Mercer, the father of her client, Cynthia, moving through it. Helena adjusted her stance and looked back at the reporter.

Unmoving, he stared, mouth partially open. Helena walked with deliberation to the refreshment table. She savored the click of heels on the marble floor. Lifting a glass of champagne and turning on her heel, she returned to her spot. The reporter shuddered, closed his eyes, then retreated into the crowd.

None approached. Before this, Helena lived in the secret lives of this room. Each of these people would recommend therapy and mental health, but none would admit that they were seeing a therapist. Publicly, therapy could be praised as demonstrating the strength to ask for help. In this web of politics, therapy implied one had weaknesses to exploit.

Helena agreed. Intimacy created vulnerability, and she’d designed her practice so that her client list had become an open secret. Powerful people came to her, but no one knew who they were.

Mercer separated from his group and approached.

“Dr. Webb.”

“Please. Helena.”

He extended a hand. Helena shook it. “Thank you. I visited Cynthia today. Visited. In person. I almost felt like I had her back.”

Relief and joy brightened his hardened, wary features. He continued to hold Helena’s hand. Cynthia’s agoraphobia had made her a prisoner in her own home.

“We sat together and talked, mostly about you,” Graham said.

“Did she tell you that the Journal of Biochemistry accepted her paper?”

Pride joined the relief. “The paper you submitted for her.”

“I just licked the stamp,” Helena laughed.

Just over Mercer’s shoulder, a young man waited, shifting his weight from foot to foot. Nervous, he glanced from Helena to various people in the room.

“She trusted you,” Mercer said.

“She’s wonderful,” Helena said. “Spending time with her is a joy. I’m glad she allows it.”

He glanced at the room, then leaned close. “You two are getting along? You’re comfortable helping her?”

“Very much so.”

“I can raise your fee-“

He still held her hand. Helena placed her other hand on his. “You’re too generous already. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Anything I can help with?” he said with emphasis. “Anything.

Helena nodded and offered a gentle smile. Releasing her hand, he repeated his thanks and departed into the crowd.

After Mercer left, the young man caught Helena’s eye. He took a tentative step, retreated, then set his jaw and closed the distance. Helena flinched, half-expecting him to crash into her.

“Director Webb,” he said and held out his hand. “My name is Julian Watt.”

Nerves made his words halting and uncertain; his combination of eagerness and fear reminded her of junior high dances. With no sophistication, puberty turned boys into awkward, aggressive beasts.

“A pleasure,” Helena said and grasped his hand with delicacy.

He looked at her hand as though her touch carried an electric charge. She slid her fingers along his hand in a gentle caress that froze his movements.

“How did they trick you into coming?” Helena asked.

“I asked to come,” he said. “My business works with the public health department sometimes.”

He hesitated. “That’s not right. We donate equipment sometimes.”

“Medical equipment?”

“For rehabilitation, mostly. But not always. I mean. We always try to help. Sometimes it’s for people with handicaps. Soldiers injured in service, not necessarily permanent, though. You know, like while they are recovering. It helps them build muscle strength,” he babbled, then paused. “We try to help. As much as we can.”

“I see,” Helena said, making her eyes bright and looking straight at him.

Swallowing, he could not hold her gaze. Looking everywhere, he glanced at her shoulder, her shoes, back to her eyes, then over his shoulder.

Helena didn’t speak, even as his gaze danced in every direction. She imagined he’d spent an hour building his courage to approach. A word would give infinite reassurance. Helena withheld it. Watching his desire and nerves tie him into knots gave her too much pleasure. When their gazes did meet, it was as though her gaze turned him to stone before his nerves regained their strength.

“I-, really,” he stammered. “I really wanted….”

He looked at the ceiling. He was blowing it. So desperate to make an impression, he struggled to speak. Gazing at him, Helena’s face remained open and bemused.

Closing his free hand into a fist, he gritted his teeth and looked into Helena’s eyes. Freezing again, he looked at her with his mouth open.

“May I take you to dinner?” he blurted.

Desperate and blushing, he waited.

“That’s sweet,” Helena said.

He waited for her to continue, then the familiarity of rejection bloomed on his face, and he grimaced.

“I’d love to,” Helena said.

“I understand,” he said and released her hand. “A pleasure to meet you.”

He turned, taking two steps before stopping. With a quick glance over his shoulder, he found Helena’s eyes.

“Did you say yes?”

Helena laughed. “I did. Have you changed your mind?”

“Never. No,” he blurted. “That’d be great. We could go to the Equinox. Or Italian? Do you like Italian?”

Helena touched his forearm. Transfixed, he looked at her hand.

“Think about something you’d like, then call me,” Helena said. Pulling her cell phone from her purse, she showed him her number. He retrieved his own phone and, with intense focus, typed her contact into it.

“You won’t stand me up, will you, Julian? My self-confidence couldn’t handle a rejection like that,” Helena said.

“No. I couldn’t. Stand you-“ he stammered. “Not a chance.”

Moving close, Helena lifted onto her tiptoes and kissed his cheek. After turning several shades of crimson, he touched his face.

“I’ll call. I promise.”

“I know,” Helena said.

---

At home, Helena found two voicemails from him. In the first, he asked if he could cook her dinner at his place. In the second, he worried she wouldn’t feel comfortable visiting his home for a first date and hoped he hadn’t offended her. A third voicemail was just the phone hanging up.

She’d texted him back: “Your place would be wonderful.”

The response was instant. “You’re comfortable with that?”

“You’re a gentleman, aren’t you?”

“Yes. Of course.”

She waited a half hour, then texted back: “I will need your address, Julian.”

His response was again instant, and she imagined him staring at the phone, waiting.

The text listed an address on the west side of town. Helena recognized the neighborhood and checked it online. It was in the Palisades overlooking the ocean, one of the wealthiest neighborhoods in the city.

---

The sun neared the western horizon as Helena drove into Julian’s circular driveway. He must have watched for her—he stepped out before she parked, waiting by the open front door.

The setting sun shone through the open front door, throwing a bright streak of light over the twilight shade before the house.

As Helena set the parking brake and stepped out, Julian arrived at the car and held the door open, offering a hand to help her out. She took it, and he pressed the car door closed behind her.

The immense house stretched on either side of the driveway. Hypermodern: horizontal glass and steel planes. Half rested on the ground; the rest overhung the cliff above the ocean.

Helena scanned the house’s façade and then looked at Julian.

“This didn’t come from a business in physical therapy, Julian,” she said.

“It is,” he said, drinking her in with his eyes. “Really. It’s the same idea.”

He kissed her hand before gesturing to the house. Inside, the setting sun cast the interior in a golden hue, muted by the floor-to-ceiling windows facing the water. The windows were photoreactive and had darkened themselves to the color of smoked glass. The scent of garlic, pepper, and tomatoes wafted from deeper inside.

“You said Italian was ok?” Julian asked.

“I did.”

Gesturing and walking before her, he led her to the kitchen. A sliced loaf of Italian bread waited alongside a pan of lasagna. He slid the lasagna into the oven and poured olive oil onto a shallow plate, offering the bread with it.

“About forty-five minutes,” he said.

Helena lifted a slice of the bread, tore it, and dipped it in the oil.

“I think I’d like to hear about your physical therapy business,” she said.

He’d been reaching for a piece of bread. His hand froze in mid-air.

“You would?”

Helena chewed and nodded.

“It gets really technical.”

After she chewed with deliberation and swallowed, she tore another piece of bread and dragged it through the oil.

“And a girl wouldn’t be smart enough to get it?”

He coughed. “No, not at all.”

“We could talk about makeup instead. How about shoes?” she said, a teasing smile on her face.

“It’s just that-“ he began. “No one ever really-“

She touched his forearm again. “No one is ever really interested, are they? They say they are, then you can see the boredom as soon as you start talking about it, right?”

The nerves broke into something deeper, vulnerability.

“It’s just so neat. I don’t understand how it can’t be for anyone else.”

Holding her hand on his forearm. “Please tell me, Julian. I’d love to hear.”

He met her gaze. “Friends call me Jules.”

“Please tell me, Jules.”

Starting to speak, he hesitated. “Really, we can talk about something else.”

Gripping his forearm tighter, she took a half step towards him. “Now, I’ll be disappointed if you don’t.”

She stood close. “What if I told you that you had to? Or, I could leave?”

“No,” he blurted. “Please stay.”

Helena held his gaze, feeling her own vulnerability. She wanted to hear it, but she didn’t want to explain. She didn’t think he would understand. The details of the work didn’t matter. She wanted the passion, and when he spoke, she’d discover who he was.

His face wavered between doubt and wariness. The distinction between feigned and genuine interest was difficult to determine. Helena looked interested.

Internal debate ended with a cough. Jules beckoned and went to the dining table, which overlooked the ocean, with gentle surf rolling over the rocks twenty feet below them. He sat, put his elbow on the table, and looked at Helena.

“Arm wrestle me,” he said and smiled.

“You’re joking.”

He shook his head, all nerves gone. “I have to show you, remember?”

Taking a deliberate bite of the bread, Helena approached and sat. She set her elbow onto the granite table and clasped Jules’ hand.

“You call it,” Jules said.

Fit but lean, more like a dancer than a bodybuilder, his forearms and biceps were well-defined but lacked overwhelming bulk. She imagined that he had triple her strength or more.

“Say if this hurts,” she said, raising an eyebrow.

When he began to chuckle, Helena called it. “Go.”

She jerked, and while his arm moved a fraction, he caught her burst and, with gentle pressure that showed half his strength, eased her arm down. As soon as the back of her hand touched the table, he released the pressure.

“You’re stronger than me,” Helena said. “We both knew that.”

Confident, he examined Helena’s body. He looked like a mechanic examining a machine.

“You’re a size six?”

Helena bristled. “Sometimes four.”

Smiling, he rose. “One minute.”

He went to a stairwell and descended. A few electronic beeps followed by the heavy sound of a security lock releasing echoed up. The sun slipped below the horizon, and the darkened glass facing the water paled to clear glass, revealing the purples and oranges of the sunset.

Jules climbed the stairs. He held a waistcoat made of a matte gray material. It looked like the top half of a wetsuit.

“Should really wear this against the skin,” he said.

Helena didn’t respond. Julian approached, holding the jacket out. Helena looked up at him.

“You want me to strip?”

“Only if you really want to,” he said with confidence he’d yet to show.

Helena’s face became defiant. “Where’s my pole then?”

He hesitated, then shook his head, holding out the jacket.

Helena rose. “And what is this going to do?”

“Show you how I could afford this house?”

Helena turned her back and held out an arm. Jules slid her arm into the coat, then repeated it with her other arm. As it touched her skin, the fabric reacted, constricting and seeming to squirm and reshape itself, as if a creature made of tingling tar had attached itself to her.

After her arms were in, she turned to face him. He dropped to one knee, adjusting the coat’s shoulders. All nerves gone, he examined the fit with practice and focus, unbothered by the intimate space.

An inch of space separated the zipper halves. Starting at the bottom, he tugged and pulled until they met, then, with careful ease, lifted the zipper until it reached just under her chin, sealing her into the coat.

The fabric continued to move and adjust along her torso. The movement along her arms faded as though the creature had become satisfied with its grip.

Still on a knee, he ran a smoothing hand along her ribcage, which sent a shiver up her spine. Standing, he looked down on her, then reached behind her neck and touched something.

The passive adjustment continued, and a charge joined it, running over every inch of her skin. She flexed her fingers and hands. It seemed they had come alive, like the tingling of a waking limb. The sensation reminded Helena of wearing latex, tight with a touch of constriction. And this added a gentle, moving touch. A flush of arousal tingled over her skin.

He was looking at her face. “Everything ok so far?”

She nodded while holding herself still and wanting to move in reaction to the coat’s adjustments.

He sat and laid his elbow on the table. “Let’s try it again.”

Uncertain, Helena sat. She set her elbow down and slipped her hand into his. The touch was electric. She felt as though her touch revealed the subtle texture of his skin.

“Go easy,” he said. “I’ll call it.”

He stared into her eyes. Without speaking a word, his arm flexed and tried to push hers towards the table.

Wanting to complain, she began to frown. She’d cheated, then she pushed back.

His arm swung in a quick snap, smacking flat against the table. Helena stared, her slender arm under the matte gray of the coat, pinning his hand to the table. The impact echoed, and she looked at her own gloved hand as a bristling wave of strength radiated up her arm.

“Helena,” he gasped.

The power had been instant and ferocious, and she watched him struggle to get free. Her delicate hand was crushing his. Testing, she pressed, and he winced.

“Helena, that hurts,” he hissed.

With as little effort, she let go. He jerked his arm away and massaged his elbow. Helena lifted the gloved hand to her face and flexed her fingers. They moved in a blur.

“The suit acts as a force multiplier,” he said. “It molds itself to your body, calculating leverage and angles of force. In passive mode, it corrects improper muscle use, forcing users to use proper form during rehab exercises. In active mode,” he flexed his arm. “Well, you saw that.”

Tearing her eyes from her own hands, she looked where he rubbed his elbow. She extended her hand.

“Give it to me,” she said.

“It’s ok. Everyone underestimates the first time.”

“Give it to me.”

He scooted towards her. She closed her arm around his elbow. With gentlest pressure, she rubbed slow circles along his elbow. Through the suit, she felt the muscle, and as she continued to massage. There were microtears at the edge of the muscle; the suit let her feel them.

“I can feel it,” she said. “The muscle strain.”

“Enhances sensitivity, too,” he said. “Again, just taking your own neural input, cleaning it up, and amplifying it. We make gloves for people with Parkinson’s, and they can eliminate the tremors altogether.”

As she continued rubbing, he winced. “Yes, right there.”

She’d gained an extra eye. His muscle fibers had separated and torn along the edges while the bulk of the muscle remained intact. Lowering the pressure, she continued to rub.

Jules closed his eyes. “That feels nice.”

“Didn’t mean to hurt you.”

He smiled, eyes closed. “My fault. I didn’t warn you.”

“So,” she asked. “How strong am I now?”

He didn’t open his eyes. “At least triple your normal strength.”

Easing the pressure on the muscle, she continued the rhythm of slow circles. “Interesting, I could pin you down, force you to tell me all about how this works.”

A small smile, and he hummed. His arm had gone limp in her hands. “Supposed to be a secret.”

“But, you’d be pinned down. Helpless. Nothing could stop me.”

“I could try to fight back.”

“If I hypnotized you first, your mind would obey every command, and you’d be too weak to resist. You’d struggle, but it would be too late.”

His smile widened. “Interesting.”

A touch of blush appeared on his cheeks.

“You’d like that,” Helena said. “Helpless, having to do everything I say.”

The blush deepened, then the smile faltered, and he opened his eyes. He started to speak…

“Too much?” she asked.

He shifted in the chair. It hadn’t been too much. It had landed in an unexpected place. Helena bent towards him. He mirrored the gesture. She looked into her eyes, their faces inches apart.

“I’d like to kiss you,” she said, “Would that be ok?”

Wincing and adjusting again, his breathing caught.

“Or you could kiss me,” Helena said. “Then, I’d know you wanted it.”

She let her eyelids become half-lidded and soft as she held her mouth partway open, ready to receive a kiss.

Julian drifted towards her, the touch of their kiss a whisper that deepened and grew aggressive. He sighed as Helena ran a hand up his arm.

Helena broke free, opening her eyes. His remained closed in the aftermath before fluttering open. He licked his lips, tasting her. Tense and needy, he touched her leg, a gentle pull drawing her forward.

“You really hypnotize people?” he asked.

She nodded. “It’s amazing, like sharing brains.”

The timer on the oven dinged. The lasagna was ready. Helena looked to the sound. Julian continued to stare at Helena and touched his mouth.

“Could you really, you know, make me do stuff?” he asked.

She met his gaze. “Stuff you really wanted to do anyway, like make me a custom suit of this. But pretty. Shiny.”

“I’d do that anyway.”

“See, you’re already obedient,” she teased.

His smile lasted an instant before the strength of his desire pulled his face to taut need.

“Can we try it?”

“Hypnotize you?” she asked, touching his temple and making a slow circle with her fingertips.

“What could you do?”

“More and more,” Helena said. “Depending upon how much time we spend together, depending on how much fun it was.”

Vulnerable, he started to speak, searching her face for reassurance. She only looked back, letting the tension hold.

“Would it-“ he stopped himself.

“Would it what, sweetheart?”

“Would it be fun with me?”

She tilted her head and smiled. “We’d need to find that out.”

“Could we find out now?”

She straightened and pulled back, the sudden distance hitting him like a blow. “We’re just getting to know each other. Let’s have dinner, then maybe we could see each other again another time?”

Needy, desperate, he swallowed and nodded.

“Ok.”

He looked into her eyes. “It does smell nice.”

He rose, looking down on her. She relaxed, maintaining eye contact. He tore himself away and went to the oven.

Helena ran a hand over the suit. The touch sent a shiver up her spine.

---

The following morning, Helena woke in her own bed. Smiling at the thought of Julian, she wrapped her arms around herself and settled against the mattress. Turning her head, she saw the time on her bedside clock. With a sigh, she got up and prepared for her new job.

The director of Selene Asylum got their own parking spot, and Helena’s name was stenciled in fresh paint on it. Security greeted and waved her through.

Her secretary, Samantha, stood and introduced herself when Helena entered. Samantha offered to bring coffee and asked how Helena took it. Helena stepped into her office, and a blur of activity confronted her. Furniture going in and coming out, and she flinched when two workmen stumbled while carrying one of her terrariums.

Her secretary returned, handed Helena a cup of coffee, and suggested an anteroom where Helena could work.

She spent the day there while the department heads paraded through. Her fingers cramped with the number of orders, releases, and requests that needed her signature.

She thought of her empty, quiet, and peaceful office downtown. It was the way she wanted it. Just her, her clients, the space, and the energy she controlled.

She imagined quitting. If she quit, she might lose the mayor, the city council members, and her press contacts. She’d have to start over. Sighing, she closed her eyes and rested her face in her hands. There were also the minds in this place that would be eager to bend to her ideas.

“Director,” her secretary said from the doorway.

“Yes,” Helena replied without looking up.

“Your office is ready.”

“Thank you.”

Silence followed, but the secretary hadn’t moved.

“Was there something else, Samantha?”

“It’s five. If there was nothing else?”

Helena looked up and smiled. “Thank you, Sam. See you tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Director.”

Helena put her face back in her hands.

“Director?” Samantha asked.

“Yes?”

“It gets better. With Dr. Brunner gone, people are hopeful. It’s been the talk since the announcement. That’s why they all came to you. Brunner wouldn’t listen. They think you might.”

“Private practice is much quieter,” Helena said with a soft smile.

“We’ll figure it out,” Samantha said.

Helena stood. “Just have to adjust.”

“Goodnight, director.”

“Goodnight, Sam.”

Samantha pulled the door closed and latched it. Helena stepped through the connecting door into silence. The office had been arranged, and Helena felt a rush when she saw the terrariums. She went to them and leaned against the glass.

Her black widows lay at the center of their webs, coiled and steady. Small packets of web-wrapped insects dangled from threads.

She went to her desk and sat, absently wiping the blotter and lifting her cell phone.

A text message notification blinked. There was no number, only the message.

“Director Webb. We need to meet.”

She typed:” Who are you?”

The response appeared: “Sentinel.”

She sat straight. “When?”

“Your battlements. Now?”

“Of course.”

She looked to the spiral stairs leading to the tower battlements overhead. She rose and climbed, unlocking and opening the trap door. She climbed out.

Scanning the overcast sky, she saw and heard nothing and leaned against the stone crenellations. Mercer Tower rose from the city center. The gray ocean stretched to the horizon to the west.

She’d imagined herself here, the ruling queen sending minions from this commanding height. Perhaps a trembling supplicant might kneel before her, praying for her favor to complete the scene.

Looking down, she tried to pick out Julian’s house among those beneath her when a whistling reached her ears.

Echoing off the stone, she struggled to locate the source, then saw an approaching shape that streaked from the city center. The whistling grew until the broad athletic shape of Sentinel resolved from the gray. The machine he rode decelerated, circled the tower once, then eased down and settled on the top. Sentinel stepped off with the casual ease of getting out of a car. The whistling faded.

Pale blue eyes pierced through her from twenty feet away as they faced each other from opposite walls of the tower. She relaxed against the stone, feeling the chill of it through her clothes. Remembering their last encounter, she flushed with arousal. He’d been on his back, the drug she’d sprayed into his face dropping him to the floor while she climbed on top and spoke to his vulnerable mind. She suggested a deep desire for her, and she’d struggled to maintain her self-control as his glazed expression absorbed every word.

His face showed none of that suggestion. Poised, determined, and strong, he stood ten feet away, his body a carved monument.

“Congratulations, Dr. Webb. I’d hoped you might be more receptive than Dr. Brunner.”

Without adjusting from her relaxed pose against the stone, Helena raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t know you all spoke?”

“I made overtures.”

“And what would you like from me?”

“Cooperation. We’re on the same side.”

“I, and this institution, have rules.”

He shook his head. “I hoped you were more than a bureaucrat.”

“I might be, if I understood what cooperation meant.”

“This place should be the safety valve. You see the pressures. You know where they might break free, and you are also in a unique position to offer assistance to those who can be saved. Brunner treated this like a warehouse for the hopeless.”

“Again, a little vague.”

“Your expertise, Dr. Webb. If I find evidence, will you help me catch warped minds before they act again? You understand their motivations better than I ever could.”

Helena nodded and held up a hand. “If the evidence is compelling. If I can get independent confirmation, and most importantly, if I believe it’s beyond the police’s ability to handle.”

“And,” he held up a finger. “When I catch them, you will try to help, not lock them in a room to rot?”

“I already do that.”

“You might’ve, but we both know Brunner didn’t.”

Helena nodded.

“It’s all I ask,” Sentinel said.

“But,” Helena replied. “I will not usurp the courts or the police, and when they do catch you, I will testify to your own particular brand of mental imbalance.”

He smiled, his ice-blue eyes softening. “If they catch me, I’d expect nothing less.”

She smiled. “I look forward to helping you one day.”

Bemused, he nodded.

Helena pushed off from the stone wall and extended her hand. Sentinel strode towards her.

As when they first met, his size and bulk loomed, the presence seeming to extend both above and around her. His enormous hand reached out for her. She took it.

When they touched, Helena faltered. She looked at their clasped hands, feeling the power in his. She composed her features and met his gaze.

He’d not noticed. His face showed doubt, and he swallowed, breaking eye contact. He stared at her body with open desire. He’d remembered, but he wasn’t sure what he remembered. His grip faltered, and he stepped away. Gripping the hand she’d touched, he looked from it to her. Doubt, tinged with suspicion, played on his features. Helena watched, her hand hanging in empty space, drawing attention to his retreat.

“Thank you, Dr. Webb. I’ll contact you,” Sentinel said.

She nodded.

Stepping onto the board, it whistled to life. Rising up, it charged away, vanishing in the gloom of the overcast sky.

When it was gone, she looked at her hand, the one she’d shaken his with. The suit. It was the same material as the suit Jules had shown her.

She looked down the coast. His house pressed against the water, just at the precipice.

Descending the spiral staircase, Helena picked up her phone and dialed, flexing her hand.

“Hello, Jules. I think you might like to have me over for dinner.”