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Whether she wanted to admit it or not, she did require her brother’s support…and Alexander’s, too. With his confirmed promise of assistance, she presumed he’d stick around, provide helpful input, give guidance. He and Chase were seemingly competent, reliable—two of the only people in her social network she could more confidently count on.
Should she message Alexander, tell him what had happened, share her harasser’s phone number, see if he could find out more? Part of her didn’t want to drag him into this, potentially put his life in danger.
She didn’t want to get anyone else ensnared in her mess. But at the same time, the more information he had, the more accurate the picture, the better assessment he could make, the better chance she had of resolving the issue…nip it in the proverbial bud.
Not yet. Her intuition told her to hold off, that being too premature wouldn’t help. She’d do some further investigating first, narrow down choices.
The taunting message sat on her mobile-phone screen, doing its unnerving job. Compelling emotions drove her to delete the text, as if not seeing it meant it hadn’t happened, didn’t exist. But she couldn’t, adding it instead to the ever-growing list of evidence.
Sage sighed and closed her text messaging app, leaving the ambiguous, unresolved threat hanging. Then she focused on reviewing client files that might meet the unsatisfied, vengeful criteria—a distraction and a necessity.
Skimming through her past two years’ worth of patients, the collated information reinforced her initial instincts. The three suspects she’d considered stood out, going by their core issues and unstable, volatile behavior.
Trista Harvey—number one on Sage’s last name, alphabetically arranged list. The woman had been suicidal for months, and a fine line existed between suicide and homicide. It all depended on a person’s mindset.
She’d talked Trista down several times, but seething, unresolved anger and hurt simmered and brewed below the surface. The woman seemed coiled tight, ready for the right trigger to set her off.
Sage had worked on facilitating her to dive into her discomfort, to abrade away the mental and emotional scarring. And Trista had shown signs of progressing. However, who one hundred percent knew the depths of what went on in a person’s head? What they responded to, what influenced their decision-making and their life? As a psychologist, Sage could only hazard a guess and test out her hypotheses in therapy.
Just when she thought Trista had taken a step forward, she’d take two or more back. She’d practically seen the frustration and anger pressurizing the woman like a fizzy drink kept too long in the freezer.
Sage reached the end of Trista’s notes and clicked into the file of the number two suspect on her list.
Miles Knight…obsessed. He’d seemed compelled to engage with her. Latch on. The guy had joined the military young without much job experience, without many significant relationships under his army belt, and had attached himself to Sage almost from their first meeting.
She’d seen it before, guys who read more into her compassion, that typical client-therapist transference. She’d discussed it in depth with her clinical supervisor, and they’d both agreed Sage needed to refer him on. She’d already tried twice, unsuccessfully. Miles had responded as if he hadn’t even heard her, as though her recommendation had rolled right off him, like he had a Teflon veneer.
From what she’d observed, he hadn’t shown any specific stalker signs. No coincidental run-ins with her down the street, and she hadn’t seen him hovering anywhere near her house or outside her office building. But he could have developed highly honed hiding skills.
Sage navigated to the notes of the third and final client on her ‘possibles’ list. Donovan Perdita. Well, not technically a consideration.
His wife.
The poor guy had suicided, died while under Sage’s care. She had never quite gotten over it.
She’d thought she’d made headway, had him rethinking his options. She’d thought she’d successfully talked him through his distress to reach a calmer, more peaceful place. Obviously not. And his grieving wife, Mallory, never failed to pile on the guilt, to reinforce that Sage was responsible.
However, Sage understood the need to blame. It came hand-in-hand with trying to make sense of a difficult situation that would never have clear-cut answers. With Donovan gone, no one could determine the final straw that had driven that life-ending decision. Most likely it was cumulative. Most likely everyone and everything had made an enduring impression.
Trista and Miles were due for review appointments today. Had she fucked them up, too? It could be the tiniest word, the tiniest phrase, the tiniest change in tone or body language, positively reinforcing the wrong thing. Most people had no idea about their impact on others.
Had she skewed their thinking in the name of self-preservation, her own insecurities, her own limited point of view? How would she ever know for sure? Could anyone fully determine their influence on another’s life? How much of that responsibility fell onto the person?
She’d wanted to talk to Mallory, but the woman had done everything in her power to avoid her, other than the initial, angry phone accusations. After what had happened, it wasn’t surprising. Sage just hoped she’d sought out professional help externally, someone she had rapport with to facilitate her to work through her sorrow.
Mallory’s husband had been Sage’s client, so she shouldn’t feel obligated to work on the woman’s issues, yet she couldn’t help it. She struggled seeing anyone in pain.
Sage didn’t want to believe any of her clients, or their significant others, were capable of the veiled threats or were possible suspects.
Sadly, they had the best motive. Crimes perpetrated by a stranger with no link to the victim were unusual. Most deaths could be traced to someone in the person’s acquaintance.
Were her own issues distorting her judgment? Should she mention her concerns to the one man who drove her crazy? In every sense—physically, emotionally, mentally. Alexander would essentially be her roommate, until her brother returned, and even though she didn’t want to admit it, she felt safer with him around.
Like a child’s security blanket, having the big man’s presence acted as peace of mind, an alarm system, a massive deterrent. The one downfall—with him super close and his elite observation skills—he wouldn’t let her hide the full truth.
After a coffee, three back-to-back client appointments then lunch, she needed a nap. She buried her face in her hands and sighed. At least in her office she had time to think at her own pace, time to re-energize.
Once Alexander picked her up, he’d be asking questions. She’d seen it in his eyes. His assessment expertise would have identified that she hadn’t been one-hundred percent transparent. It seemed he had a highly attuned bullshit radar.
