“Yesterday, you mentioned someone took you from your home.”

“Kidnapped me,” Samantha said, bluntly, her eyes flaring for a moment, her breath coming in rapid patterns.

“Yes,” Ilse replied, smoothly, in a calming, normalizing voice. The gentler methods hadn’t done much good the previous day. Of course, taking her time on a case like this was necessary, but on the other hand, Sam seemed genuinely terrified that someone was after her.

Ilse had to find a way to help. In the case of paranoia, to overcome or treat the fears. In the case of authentic memory, though… To help recover, and then notify the authorities about Ms. Wright’s experiences.

Either way, taking things too slowly would only yield results like yesterday: confusion, fear, exhaustion. Taking things too quickly, though, could easily cause more damage, or collapse Sam under the weight of it all.

Exposure therapy didn’t always have to target the original mode of trauma. Rather, adjacent exposures to minor and parallel triggers could often help.

“That,” Ilse said, indicating the paper, “is an article from yesterday.”

“An article?”

“A killer struck nearby, only twenty miles from here,” Ilse said, wincing in a conciliatory way—communicating she was still on Samantha’s side—but pressing on regardless. “Do you think you could read the first paragraph?”

“I… You want me to read about a murder?” Samantha shifted uncomfortably. “Why?”

“You mentioned the person who took you,” Ilse said, quietly, “was a serial killer. You mentioned he harmed others, and you escaped.”

“I only remember shadows of shadows,” Samantha replied. “I don’t remember much.” Her fingers were now gripping the piece of paper tightly.

Ilse’s eyes flitted from Samantha’s pupils to her white knuckles, to her rigid arms at her side. Fingers enclosed over the palms—not aggressive, but defensive. Like embracing one’s body to protect against an external threat.

Ilse watched her client quietly, considering if she should press further. Instead, she allowed her client to hold the paper, face down.

“I don’t think I want to read about a murderer.”

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do,” Ilse said, softly. “You mentioned you were from Seattle.”

“Yes. So?”

“The murder took place only twenty miles from the city.”

Samantha shivered. “Think it could be the same guy who took me?”

“That was nearly twenty years ago, yes?” Even as Ilse said it, her own spine prickled with fear. Twenty years ago… Hilda Mueller, in the basement, a hand clapped to her bleeding ear. Crying, crying. Her older siblings trying to shush her. Someone had hit her from behind, just to shut her up, to avoid attracting their father’s attention. The sound of thumping footsteps.

Ilse swallowed, blinked, looked away, then inhaled deeply through her nose.

“Y-yes,” said Samantha, softly. “Twenty years—it’s a long time, I know. But he’s coming after me again. I don’t even remember what he looks like… but… but I do remember looking out a window,” she said, swallowing. “I remember that. He… he would drive a red truck down the old road. I remember that too! But I don’t know what he looked like. How could I not know!”