Imaginary Strangers (Dangerous Strangers, #1)

by Minka Kent

Good people are always so sure they’re right.

“Sociopathy is considered an antisocial personality disorder,” she explained. “It’s believed that one in twenty-five people in this country falls under this category.” The doctor paused, taking a moment to readjust her trembling hands. “After evaluating you, it’s my professional opinion that you, too, fall under this category.”

Sympathy (and its cousin, empathy) are strangers I’ll never know—but that doesn’t mean I can’t pretend we’re great friends.

I’ve discovered that while I’m incapable of feeling love and compassion the way most people do, what I am capable of feeling . . . is dangerously protective. There’s nothing I won’t do to keep my family—and my secrets—safe.

That’s the other thing that comes with the kind of childhood trauma I experienced—it makes you damn good at reading people.

I don’t know that I could do this—and maintain an ounce of my sanity—with anyone else but him. We’re a damn good team. He makes me feel safe.

I learned early in my adult years that it’s imperative to use the right bait when you’re fishing, which is why I always donned a curve-hugging yet tasteful little black dress, sky-high heels that made my long legs appear even longer, and a classic crimson lip that demanded attention.

I had my routine down to a science: I’d give just enough eye contact to intrigue a man, use my body language to strike a balance between soft and feminine, all while giving an air of rarity—something that gently whispered I was a prize to be claimed.

In my experience, if I listened closely enough, people would tell me exactly how they wanted to be treated, and I always took notes.

Most people, I’d learned by then, didn’t feel heard enough in their day-to-day lives. They were almost always starving for a genuine connection. Finding someone to listen? To see them? To value their thoughts? It was like winning the lottery.

Sociopathy, I’ve learned, makes one a natural opportunist.

I’ll likely never know what true love feels like, that mutual respect, fierce loyalty, and admiration is about as close as I’ll probably ever get.

Guilt and remorse might as well be control mechanisms. And true empathy sounds exhausting. I’ve got enough problems of my own—why be burdened with anyone else’s if I don’t have to be?

In a fucked-up way, sociopathy is my superpower—or at least that’s the way I’ve chosen to look at it.

it’s difficult to feel sorry for anyone who drives a custom vinyl-wrapped G-Wagen, lives in a breathtakingly gorgeous home with panoramic ocean views, a full-time staff of five, and owns vacation homes in Aspen, Palm Beach, and Zurich.

The idea of having a group of mom friends and scheduling rotating playdates again holds as much appeal as eating a meat jelly sandwich,

I do this sometimes—I mirror her own verbiage back to her. It sends a light to her eyes. Validation, perhaps? I’d love to know if she can tell I’m being manipulative, but I don’t ask. I don’t mean to do these things, they just come naturally.

At the end of the day, every relationship is transactional, and anyone who believes otherwise is fooling themselves.

I don’t have to meet this woman to decide I couldn’t possibly respect her.

Overachieving busybodies live to people please.

Children’s parties are the bane of my existence. The cheap decorations. The parents standing around awkwardly making small talk. The junky favors that we all know go straight into the garbage the minute our kids aren’t looking. The way those little hyper humans lose their ever-loving minds like Gen Zers at a Taylor Swift concert.

too much emotion muddies the message.

“Ignoring people is a form of disrespect. And it’s cruel.

sociopaths can be hotheaded, often letting their rage get the best of them in trying situations.

psychopaths are born, but sociopaths are made,”

“It’s easy to romanticize the past or play the what-if game, and some people spend their entire lives doing that, but in my experience, there are more productive ways to work through these kinds of things,”

This is why I can’t have friends. I have no sympathy for these people and their first-world problems; problems that are paradise compared to the hell I’ve lived through. Even if I could empathize with their complaints, I don’t imagine I could do it on a regular basis without getting burned out.

I don’t want to adult or human or wife tonight. I only want to sleep.

If I could love her, I would. But I respect, value, and appreciate her more than she could begin to imagine, and that’s basically the same thing.

I appreciate her professionalism, but even more than that, I appreciate that she doesn’t insult my intelligence by mincing words.

I’m not a victim and I don’t need pity. After all, I willingly signed up for this.

Most men, I’ve come to learn, are blind to these things. It’s as if they can’t see them—or they can see them, they just can’t interpret them to save their lives. It’s not their fault. That’s just how their brains operate—they’re doers and fixers, not worriers.

The number of disagreements we’ve had in our marriage I could truly count on one hand. I’ve always been savvy when it comes to picking my battles,

Humans, by our very nature, are remarkably adaptive.

Locks, at their very core, were invented because not everyone can be trusted.

sometimes space is the secret spice in a healthy relationship.”

Society tells women we’re supposed to do it all, have it all, and be it all. But what society doesn’t tell you is that’s an impossible order.”

What does it truly mean to be human if not to be flawed, complex, and occasionally, morally ambiguous?