Her clinical supervisor's voice echoed in her head—Never meet clients alone in isolated locations, especially after hours. Your safety protocols exist for a reason.
But Jessica hadn't sounded threatening in her message. She'd sounded desperate. And Linda had been doing this job long enough to know the difference between someone who might hurt others and someone who might hurt themselves.
She stood, moving to her bedroom to grab a warmer coat. December in Duluth meant the kind of cold that could kill you if you weren't prepared, and she had no idea how long she'd be outside trying to talk Jessica down from whatever ledge she'd found herself on.
Her phone buzzed with another message.
Please hurry. I don't know how much longer I can hold on.
Linda's professional detachment cracked slightly. She'd lost clients to suicide before—three over her twenty-three-year career, each one a failure that haunted her in different ways. The most recent had been only two years ago, a veteran with PTSD who'd stopped answering her calls and been found in his apartment three days later. The guilt had been crushing, theendless loop ofwhat if I'd tried harder, what if I'd shown up at his door, what if I'd been more persistent.
She wasn't going to add Jessica to that list.
Linda grabbed her keys and purse, checking that her phone was fully charged and her pepper spray was in the side pocket—a precaution she'd started taking after a client had become aggressive during a home visit five years ago. She sent a quick text to her daughter Rachel:Got a client crisis. Meeting someone downtown. Should be back by midnight. Love you.
Rachel was away at college in Minneapolis, but Linda had made it a habit to always tell someone where she was going, especially for after-hours meetings. Just in case.
The drive through Duluth's empty streets felt surreal, her headlights cutting through darkness broken only by the occasional streetlamp. Most of the businesses were closed, windows dark, the city settling into its winter night routine. Linda's hands were tight on the steering wheel, her mind running through crisis intervention protocols.
Assess immediate danger. Establish rapport. Get her talking. Don't make any sudden moves. Watch for signs of intoxication or signs that the ex-husband might be nearby. Have 911 ready to dial if things escalated.
Harbor Drive was even more deserted than the main roads, lined with industrial buildings and warehouses that had long since closed for the night. Linda's GPS directed her to a maintenance complex set back from the street, surrounded by chain-link fencing. The building was older, probably from the sixties, with concrete walls and small windows set high up near the roofline.
She pulled into the empty parking lot, her sedan's headlights sweeping across cracked asphalt and patches of ice. No other cars. No signs of Jessica or anyone else.
Linda killed the engine but left her headlights on, illuminating the area around the building's entrance. The maintenance structure was bigger than she'd expected, with several loading bays and what looked like access doors along the side. Off to the left, partially hidden by shadows, she could see a steel door set into a concrete housing—probably the steam tunnel entrance Jessica had mentioned.
She pulled out her phone and texted:I'm here. Where are you?
The response came within seconds.By the tunnel entrance. The door on the left side of the building. Please come quick.
Linda grabbed her purse, double-checking that her pepper spray was easily accessible, and stepped out into the December cold. The air bit at her exposed face immediately, her breath forming clouds that dissipated into the darkness. She could hear the distant sound of traffic from the main road, but here in the industrial district, the silence was oppressive.
"Jessica?" she called out, her voice sounding small and uncertain. "It's Linda Graves. Where are you?"
No response. She moved toward the left side of the building, following the direction from the text. Her footsteps echoed off the concrete walls, and she became acutely aware of how isolated this location was. No nearby businesses, no residential areas, just empty industrial space and the dark waters of Lake Superior somewhere beyond the buildings.
The steel door came into view, partially illuminated by a single overhead security light. It was marked with faded yellow paint: AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY - STEAM TUNNEL ACCESS POINT 4.
"Jessica?" Linda called again, stopping about ten feet from the door. "I'm here. You can come out. It's safe."
A figure emerged from the shadows beside the door, and Linda's hand instinctively moved toward her purse. But it wasn'tJessica—it was a man, wearing maintenance coveralls with a Public Works logo on the chest. He looked to be in his fifties or sixties, with a grizzled beard and weathered features that suggested decades of outdoor work.
"You looking for someone?" the man asked, his voice carrying a slight rasp.
Linda's guard went up immediately. "I'm meeting a client. Jessica Chan. She texted me to meet her here."
The man's expression shifted—was that recognition? Concern? She couldn't quite read it in the dim light. "Yeah, she's here. Went inside about five minutes ago. Said she was waiting for her social worker." The man gestured toward the steel door. "I tried to tell her this wasn't a great place to hang out, but she seemed pretty upset. Said she needed somewhere private to think."
Linda's unease intensified. Something about this felt wrong—the isolated location, the after-hours timing, a maintenance worker conveniently present at nearly 11 PM. But if Jessica really was inside, possibly in crisis, she couldn't just leave her there.
"Is it safe to go in?" she asked, moving slightly closer to the door.
"Safe enough if you know what you're doing. Gets hot in there though—steam tunnels, you know. They carry heated water to half the buildings downtown." The man pulled out a key card, holding it up so she could see it. "I can show you where she went. Not a good idea to wander around in there alone if you don't know the layout. Easy to get lost."
Linda hesitated, every professional protocol she'd ever learned screaming at her to stop, to call for backup, to not enter an isolated underground space with a stranger. But the thought of Jessica alone in those tunnels, potentially suicidal, potentially harming herself while Linda stood outside debating safety procedures, overrode her caution.
She thought about calling the police, but what would she tell them? That a former client had texted asking for help? That she was meeting someone who might be in crisis? The response time alone could be fifteen or twenty minutes, and by then—
