She could feel Samantha’s fear, feel her sense of defeat. It would perhaps be best to call the session.

But it was only 9:59. Imprecise.

The session ended at 10:00.

And so, in silence, she waited, watching the second hand like a runner waiting for the sound of a starter pistol. Ilse swallowed, dabbing at her lip with her tongue, breathing slowly, shallowly.

The second hand ticked past the twelve.

Ten o’clock exactly.

“I’m afraid we’re out of time,” Ilse said, exhaling in relief along with the words. Schedules had to be kept. Time mattered. Preciseness mattered.

Samantha seemed relieved at this declaration and she sprang to her feet, rubbing and twisting her hands in front of her, nodding in gratitude. “Thanks, Dr. Beck,” she said, softly. “I—sorry I couldn’t be more help. I—I just… I know he’s coming. I can feel that he is. I need your help.” Her next word came out strangled and desperate. “Please.”

Ilse rose as well, her features arranged in a comforting, conciliatory expression. She didn’t touch her client, but swept her hand past the woman’s elbow in a sort of comforting, patting motion, without actually making contact. “You have nothing at all to apologize for, Sam,” Ilse said, softly. She gestured with a hand toward the door, nodding as she did. Exactly ten o’clock. She didn’t have time to wait, though, as she had a meeting of her own at 10:30. She was going to be late if she didn’t hurry. Then again, this case was fascinating and heartbreaking all at once. She could feel a swirl of compassion for this woman. At the same time, she could feel a sense of foreboding. She felt troubled, too…

So many of Samantha’s disjointed, distant memories reminded Ilse of her own past… her own family… her father.

She shivered as her client stepped past, pulling her sweater tight around her, shoulders slumped, head bowed in a posture of defeat.

“I don’t want to make you wait a full week,” Ilse said, blinking and following after her client toward the front door of her home. “So how about tomorrow? Same time?”

Samantha’s expression flushed with sudden gratitude and relief. She paused in the doorway, one hand on the brass knob. She swallowed, then nodded once. “Thanks. Really, thank you. All right, Dr. Beck. Tomorrow.”

“See you then.”

The woman’s shoulders only seemed to slump further as she stepped out the front door, moving out beneath the gray Seattle sky. She pulled her arms tight around her, and then moved toward the Jeep she’d parked in the gravel driveway.

Ilse watched the woman leave, one hand braced against the door. She winced, still considering her own memories, rising, swirling to the surface. As she watched Samantha get into her Jeep, Ilse could feel tremors along the backs of her hands. She frowned now, and then murmured, “Bundy. Brown hair. Brown eyes. Forty-two. Thirty victims. November twenty-fourth. Forty-six.” She listed the words quickly, precisely. “Antisocial disorder. Possible multiple personality disorder.” Then repeated them. Slowly, as she did, her breathing regularized, and she began to calm.