He'll regret the day he accepted me as a patient.
CHAPTER TWO
Dr. Red Mercer
The end of my previous session leaves a faint echo of restless energy inside the office, the kind that lingers whenever a patient digs through their past a little deeper than they expected. Usually, I clear the emotional residue out with a walk down the hallway, a minute of quiet on the balcony, or an extra-long break outside. It gives me time to breathe until my thoughts sharpen again. Then I'm reset, anchored for the next client, and prepared for whatever they might throw my way.
Today, my schedule doesn't allow it.
Skylar Ivanov's voice runs through my mind. The tremor behind her steady tone exposed how much she tried to hold it together.
Parents often mask their terror under defensiveness, bravado, or blame, yet she exposed the edges of her concern with every carefully chosen word.
Adrian Ivanov had remained largely silent on the phone call, yet his quiet stance told me far more than his words would have. Men like him don't pause unless they sense danger. And possibly for the first time, he felt out of control when it came to his daughter.
Yet behind all of his protective fire was displaced confusion. He let a crack of uncertainty slip, making him no different from most fathers who bring their daughters to work with me. He wondered where he had gone wrong and where the line between love and delusion had blurred.
I understand that conflict too well.
It's what earned me top honors in every psychology program that accepted me. I don't treat patients by memorizing protocols. I dissect patterns, motivations, impulsivity, attachment, anticipation, deflection, and desire.
People reveal more through the spaces between their words than through their explanations. So I've spent my entire career paying attention to those spaces.
Which is why the story about their daughter did not surprise me.
The details did, along with the escalation. But the pattern was the same as that of other stalkers.
The Ivanovs want help for their daughter, but they also want absolution for themselves. The world will always judge a parent for a child's unraveling before the child ever has a chance to speak.
Now it's my turn to listen, and I need to be ready. I sit down and open the folder on my desk labeledBlue Ivanov. The stack isn't thick. There are no prior psychological treatment records, schoolintervention reports, or emotional development concerns noted by teachers.
The thin file means the real information hasn't been processed yet. I'm starting at ground zero. People who never receive help often learn to disguise everything. Since Blue's twenty-five, my guess is she has more layers than an onion.
I've got my work cut out for me.
I study the only thing I do have, which I required to take Blue on as a new patient.
Skylar's written summary is calmer than her voice had been. Adrian's statement is raw, aggressive, and defensive. Both are incomplete.
I read each line again anyway.
Self-inflicted injury.
Stalking behaviors.
Obsession with a married man.
Break-ins.
Lies woven into a web precise enough to fool them until she slipped.
Many therapists would begin this first session already diagnosing. I won't. Labels can become cages. Symptoms are only footprints leading toward the truth, but I can't skip over what I already know.
This girl is in trouble.
I check the time. There are seven minutes until Blue's appointment. I stand, straighten the books on the credenza, adjust the angle of the chair opposite mine, then undo it and adjust again. I set my palms on the windowsill overlooking the building's courtyard, tapping the marble.
The sky stretches in a muted afternoon palette, a soft haze of light filtering between clouds. The day should be calm, predictable, controlled. My two early morning sessions this morning were routine, even comforting in their familiarity.
