“Three… Four… Five!”

She tried to whirl around but felt something against the back of her spine; a knee, pressing hard. Now, angled over her seat as she was, she couldn’t move. She felt fingers against her lower back, moving up to her shoulder, as if someone were mimicking walking legs with their first two fingers. “Six… Seven… Eight…”

“Please,” she gasped, helpless and trapped by the door and the knee, lying across the two seats. “Hey! Help!”

“Happy to,” said the painful, rasping voice. “Don’t struggle, I don’t want to stain the seats. Also, nine and ten, by the way.”

Erica tried again to whirl around, but again the knee shoved hard, painfully, and then something else, sharper, gouged into her neck from behind.

She yelled, gasping, and felt a sudden warmth along her throat.

Then it all ended.

CHAPTER FIVE

It was with some relief that Ilse Beck opened the front door to her new client. For a moment, as she stood there, one hand holding the door open, her eyes did a once-over, examining Samantha Wright. The blonde-haired, slump-postured woman had one arm tucked against her side, a pale hand holding her wrist in a defensive way.

But she seemed in good health. Ilse smiled pleasantly and stepped aside.

“Sam, good to see you. Come on in.”

“Hey, Dr. Beck,” her new client said, swallowing and glancing over her shoulder. Her Jeep was parked in the drive again, behind the Boat. “Sorry… sorry about the voicemail,” she muttered. She didn’t quite make eye contact, a flash of shame and frustration darting over her countenance, and then she sidled past Ilse, into the house, making a beeline toward the patio door which led to the glass-enclosed porch overlooking the gray lake.

Ilse closed the door behind them, double-checking, then triple-checking the lock, before following Sam into the makeshift office space.

She waited for Sam to choose a seat—the same one as last time, facing the lake—and then settled in the desk chair adjacent to the couch.

Ilse folded her hands across her lap and continued smiling pleasantly. “I’m glad you’re back.”

Samantha tugged at the edge of her sleeve, as if trying to pull it past her fingertips. She glanced uncertainly off to the side, swallowed, and looked back at Ilse. “I really am sorry.”

“Nothing to apologize for. Fear can be crippling. Sometimes, though, facing the fear can help put it in its proper place.”

Sam watched her warily.

Ilse pulled out the printed piece of paper she’d picked up from Donovan’s office earlier that morning, extending it to her client.

Sam hesitantly reached out with pale, fragile fingers like delicate twigs, and accepted the printed paper, but before Ilse let go, she said, quietly, “Don’t look at that just yet.”

Samantha paused, one hand holding the paper, the text facing toward the floor, her eyes wary, fixated on Ilse. “I… What is it?”

“Have you ever heard of exposure therapy?”

“I… Maybe on TV. I don’t know what it is though.”