Ilse was careful with this next question. Too strong, and she might trigger the PTSD; too light, though, and she’d be of no help at all. “And you don’t remember what he looks like?”

Sam froze for a moment, as if glued to her seat, her arms motionless, her fingers stiff against the cushions of the couch. “I try to,” she said, her voice shaking. “I try…” She looked over, her eyes fixated on Ilse. “But no. I don’t remember. Just glimpses and snapshots…”

Ilse smiled in a comforting, sad sort of way. She said, “I’m happy to help you remember, if that’s what you want.”

But the woman blinked, frowning now. “Remember? I—no, Dr. Beck, that’s not why I’m here. At least, not completely.”

Ilse didn’t betray her confusion, keeping her expression docile. “Oh?”

“I’m here,” she said, her voice rising in volume and pitch, anxiety and fear tinging her tone, “because he’s still out there!”

“The serial killer who abducted you?”

“Yes! He’s still out there. And he’s re-targeting me! I know he is. I can tell.” The breeze brushed the window and tapped lightly against the glass. But it might as well have been a gunshot, as Sam turned wildly, gasping and staring at the swinging frame.

Ilse reached up gently, wedging a book beneath the window, keeping it in place. Slow, careful movements. “You believe he’s coming after you again? After all these years?”

Ilse pictured her own memories surfacing… More than two decades since that scene in the basement. Two decades, nearly, since she’d seen him. She shivered, but gritted her teeth, forcing her attention back to Samantha.

“I’m not crazy,” her patient repeated. “I can… can feel it. Someone was watching me at the grocery store last week. It could have been him. I don’t know—I ran.”

“So you think he’s coming back for you?”

The woman wagged her head, nodding. “Yes, Dr. Beck. I know it! I’m not safe. I need your help. To remember what he looked like—not to remember for remembering’s sake,” she swallowed, “but so I can protect myself. So the police can catch him. I know he killed people. I just don’t remember how many, or who.”

“Or what he looked like?”

Samantha shivered and didn’t answer, pausing for a moment and rubbing at her elbows. She looked lost, tired, like a rabbit trembling in a hutch. Ilse’s heart panged with compassion, but at the same time, her own troubled thoughts swirled.

Should she call the police? Was Samantha delusional? The fear seemed real. The dreams… the haunting thoughts returning seemed likely.

But the lying mother? The non-concrete details? Possible for repressed memories. Probable, even. Ilse glanced up at the clock. 9:58. She stared at the second hand, watching it tick by. The session ended at 10:00. Ilse felt a flicker of unease swirl in her stomach, staring at the second hand. 9:59. She winced at the number, feeling her fingers quiver. Ilse hated imprecise numbers—the way they hung suspended, like an unanswered question. One had to be precise with time. Imprecision bred anxiety, and anxiety compromised excellence.