Dr. Mitchell had been somewhat of a father figure in her life, and she could only thank him for it.

Then again…

She shivered as more memories surfaced. One hand probed up to her maimed ear.

Father figures of an entirely different sort haunted her dreams… Most of her memories from what she’d endured in that remote house, back in the Black Forest in Germany, had been repressed. Her past, similarly buried. Her other name, her background, her lineage, her history… All of it hidden, swirling around deep, deep down, where they’d been locked out of sight.

Perhaps that’s why she wanted to believe this new client… Many of her clients who’d survived horrors didn’t always make it. Some, though, managed to claw their way back to the light.

These success stories gave Ilse hope for herself. After a fashion.

“I’ll try something else tomorrow,” Ilse murmured, lost in thought as Dr. Mitchell ordered lunch.

This new client believed a serial killer was re-targeting her… Could the same thing ever happen to Ilse? She shivered at the thought… shivered at the flutter of long buried memories somewhere deep in her gut, and she folded her arms around her, feeling cold all of a sudden.

She’d need to do some research when she got home. Something to help her new client open up… The radio had mentioned something about a murder nearby on a maintenance road. Could that help ease into an exposure model?

First thing when she got home, she’d double-check the news. Maybe there would be something useful for tomorrow’s session.

***

Ilse didn’t have a smartphone. She didn’t trust them. So, in order to read the article, she’d been forced to wait until she returned home to boot up her behemoth of a PC—nearly a decade old. This, coupled with the wood-burning stove and the analog clocks, was only a small part of her mini-revolt against all things overly technological.

She sat in front of the clunky, beige computer screen, her eyes narrowed as she scanned the article posted the previous day. The headline told the story.

Hitchhiker Murdered East of Seattle…

She scanned the contents of the article, her eyes flicking along the buzzing screen. She didn’t like using computers too long—they always seemed to give her a headache. The article was sparse in detail, suggesting the local boys and girls in blue were playing things close to their vests.

She clicked off the screen, massaging the bridge of her nose, and shut down the computer. It would take ten minutes for the ancient artifact to boot up again.

Above her, she could hear the tap of droplets against the roof as it continued to rain into the evening. She got to her feet slowly, stretching as she shifted back and forth. She’d need to get some exercise in soon. She’d been a runner in high school and college, but had moved on to more practical forms of cardio recently, and certainly wasn’t interested in competing in any of Dr. Mitchell’s Ironman competitions. Rather, she preferred more practical forms of aerobic exercise. The gym where she trained, though, would be closed in the evening.