“I told you it was a peculiar one. I thought perhaps you’d be able to provide some insight.”

“I hope so,” Ilse murmured. “I’m seeing her again tomorrow.” She paused, considering what would be appropriate to share. Instead of asking directly, though, she said, “I’m trying to think of new ways to help some of my clients open up,” she said, softly. “Something to help them relax, and remember.”

“Relax and remember—a high ask,” said Mitchell. “Tried Seeking Safety? Or exposure?”

Ilse clicked her tongue and folded her hands on the table in front of her. “I’m not sure how effective cognitive behavioral therapy will be in these cases…” She pictured the woman’s frightened posture, the way she’d twitched at the slightest glance. Ilse’s own memories flitted up again…

A dark basement… scissors in her father’s hand. She glanced to the side and back at her mentor. Cognitive behavioral therapy hadn’t worked with Ilse either. Not before, and not now. Was this new client any different?

Again, she felt a jolt of discomfort at the sheer number of similarities between them, but she suppressed the thought and cleared her throat.

Dr. Mitchell leaned in, a light glinting in his eye, as if intrigued. “I see,” he said, his curiosity clearly piqued. “What about phase-oriented treatment of structural dissociation?”

Ilse gnawed on her lip. “I have no sense of dissociative disorder. Nor complex PTSD.”

Mitchell rubbed at his chin. “So no to the trauma model, no to cognitive behavioral therapy… What about medication for PTSD, maybe an SSRI?”

“Too early for any prescription.”

“I see,” said Mitchell, leaning back now, and yet somehow still maintaining his perfect posture. The man’s slim frame was due in part to the three Ironmans he’d already completed in his seventies. He was training for a fourth, and Ilse knew the bicycle she’d spotted outside belonged to her old mentor.

“Well, Becks,” he said, glancing up as a waitress approached, moving slowly through the tables, “likely we need more information, then.”

Ilse wrinkled her nose at the pet name. “Likely. Mitch,” she added.

It was his turn to react, raising his white eyebrows. “Mitch?”

“You call me Becks, I call you Mitch,” she said, with a wink. “You know how I feel about the nickname.”

Dr. Mitchell leaned in, smiling with his eyes, though his lips were drawn in a line. “Ah, but I don’t know your real name, do I, Ilse?” His eyes flicked down to the tattoo on her wrist.

Ilse shrugged uncomfortably. Donovan Mitchell was the only person she knew who’d been smart enough to realize the moniker she used wasn’t her given name. He didn’t know her full background—no one did. But it was part of his charm that he never questioned her on it nearly so much as he looked for clues. Sometimes Ilse felt like he spent time with her simply to try and unravel the mystery of her past.

Other times, though, he simply seemed to like her company, and the ability to help her with any of her current clients. He’d been the first person to recognize the talent she had in the field—she’d only been a teenager at the time. He’d personally mentored her, and given her the recommendation that had gotten her into the program at the University of Washington.