The wolf doesn’t believe me. And honestly? Neither do I.
Chapter 3 - Fern
I don’t sleep well in the cottage.
The bed is comfortable, the room is quiet, and Ruby made sure I had everything I needed before she left last night. But every creak of the old house makes me bolt upright, and every shadow outside the window sends my heart racing. By the time dawn breaks, I’ve maybe slept two hours total.
I make coffee in the small kitchen and try to convince myself that coming here was the right choice. The cottage is cozy—one bedroom, a bathroom with an actual tub, and a living area with a fireplace. Better than sleeping in my car. Safer than being on the road.
But is it safe enough?
I check my phone for the hundredth time. No messages from Robbie, which should be a relief, but somehow makes me more nervous. He’s out there somewhere, probably tracking me, definitely angry that I ran. The thought of him cutting my timing belt while I slept in some rest stop parking lot makes my stomach turn.
At 8:30, I walk back to the medical center. The morning is beautiful—crisp and cool, with mist still clinging to the trees surrounding Silvercreek. People wave as I pass, friendly and so different from New York. Nobody here knows me, but they smile anyway.
An older man tips his hat as he passes. A woman walking her dog calls out a cheerful good morning. A group of teenagers heading somewhere laugh and jostle each other, carefree in a way I haven’t felt in months. Maybe years.
Patricia is already at her desk when I arrive, with her reading glasses perched on her nose as she reviews paperwork. She looks up and beams when she sees me.
“Fern! Good morning. How was your first night in the cottage?”
“Quiet,” I reply, which is technically true. “Thank you again for letting me stay there.”
“Of course, dear. Coffee?” She gestures to a pot in the corner.
I attempt a smile. “I already had three cups. Nervous energy.”
Patricia laughs and waves me into a chair across from her desk. “Well, let’s see if we can turn that nervous energy into excitement. Tell me about your experience.”
I walk her through my credentials—my master’s in clinical psychology from NYU, my five years at a practice in Manhattan specializing in trauma therapy. I explain my approach, my philosophy, and the populations I’ve worked with. PTSD survivors, domestic violence victims, and people dealing with complex grief. Patricia nods along and makes occasional notes.
“Do you have a resume I can keep for our files?” she asks.
“Not an updated one. This wasn’t exactly…” I trail off, not sure how much to explain. “I left New York in a hurry. Most of my files are still at my old apartment.”
“I see.” Patricia sets down her pen and studies me over her glasses. “You know, we believe a great deal in fate here in Silvercreek. The way you ended up on our doorstep, right when we needed you most? That seems like more than a coincidence.”
“You don’t even know if I’m any good at my job.”
“Are you?”
The directness of the question catches me off guard. Even if I don’t apply my methods to my own life, I am great at helping others. “Yes. I’m very good at what I do.”
“Then that’s all I need to know.” Patricia pulls out a folder and slides it across the desk. “This is a trial employment contract. Sixty days to start. If we’re both happy at the end of that period, we’ll make it permanent. The salary isn’t going to make you rich, but it includes the cottage and health insurance.”
I review the contract, noting the generous terms. The salary is actually better than I expected for a small-town practice. The benefits are solid. The cottage alone would cost me more than the salary reduction if I were paying rent in Manhattan.
“This is very fair.”
“We take care of our people here.” Patricia hands me a pen. “What do you say?”
I should ask more questions. Request references, tour the facilities properly, and maybe meet the rest of the staff. But my hand is already moving, signing my name at the bottom of the contract before my logical brain can catch up.
“Wonderful!” Patricia collects the paperwork and tucks it into a filing cabinet. “You can start today if you’d like. We have a few patients scheduled who would benefit from your expertise. Nothing too overwhelming for your first day—just some initial consultations.”
“Today? I don’t even have my office set up—”
“We’ll use the consultation room down the hall. It’s all ready for you.” Patricia stands and beckons me to follow. “Come on, I’ll show you around.”
