Pen poised, he pressed the play button again.

“Fate is not a right.”

“Hmm. That’s an interesting idea.” He heard a faint smile in his tone. “Isn’t fate just a theory? If life is random, then wouldn’t that make your statement true and false? Or you can have faith in God and destiny. From that we might surmise all existence has meaning. You’ve never mentioned your religious beliefs in this.”

“I don’t believe in any God. That’s not the right word for luck.”

The girl argued philosophy well, and this impressed him initially. If she weren’t a patient, and he met her at a dinner party as a grown woman, he could imagine a lively, enjoyable debate.

“So tell me, how does living work? One may argue life works in different ways for each individual. Some say you’re born lucky. Or unlucky. I imagine there’s simply wise and unwise people. The rational, balanced view on existence is to understand that we make choices. Our fate is a result of those choices. Good or bad.”

“Are you convinced of that Dr. Shepherd?”

“I am. How does life work for you?”

He recalled the way she’d looked when answering this question. Though he was unable to initially remember details of any session, listening to each recording the details came back, as if his mind had been pricked and the memories dribbled out.

He listened to her answer, paused and played it again.

Then again.

He scribbled two paragraphs on that one comment, underlining the last sentence several times without thinking. After reviewing the words, he decided to cross out the line. His hand moved furiously, drawing line after line on the page. He was unable to say why erasing all record of this thought seemed so important. After all, she couldn’t know what he’d written.

He rewound the recording again and listened, telling himself the way she’d looked at him was only in his imagination. His nerves had been on edge and his judgment must be flawed. Her demeanor was arguably normal given the circumstances of her referral to him, and her history.

Tragic was too light a word for her case, and at the start, he was determined, almost obsessed, to help. Now he’d begun to reason he wasn’t the right person to assist her. Yes, yes, his specialty was childhood trauma. Despite his twenty-three years of experience, with her though, he felt out of his depth.

He stared again at the page. Maybe he should have kept the words, just in case.

Just in case! Was he crazy?

He pulled out his cell and dialed his colleague, Dr. Sanders. Psychologists were privy to disturbing stories, so it was necessary to have a consigliere, of sorts—a title he’d jokingly given to Sanders.

He wasn’t available, but Shepherd made an appointment with the doctor’s receptionist, before returning to his notes. What had she meant by those words? He worried that in scrubbing away their existence, his action might be a sign of disrespect. Or craziness on his part.