“I understand. It sounds horrible to not even remember what he looks like.” Mirroring language. Allowing Ilse to recover, if only a bit, from her own memories. She shifted uncomfortably.

Sam shook her head. “I—I—and this article? You think it could help?”

“A killer striking nearby. A real threat…” Ilse shrugged a shoulder. “Maybe.”

Samantha exhaled slowly, considering the words, staring at the paper, still keeping the text of the article face down.

Ilse just watched, waited.

“Twenty miles… that’s close,” Sam whispered. “Maybe it is him. Maybe he’s targeting others… Did the victim look like me?” she said, suddenly, eyes on Ilse. “Did she have my name?”

Ilse just waited, allowing the considerations to do the work for her.

Sam shifted uncomfortably, the paper crinkling in her fingers as she leaned back. She still hadn’t glanced at the text. But as she reclined, her eyes fixed on the lake through the window, her gaze became far off, her breath slow, labored.

For a moment, her eyes flickered, and her heavy breathing almost seemed to calm, in a sort of trancelike state. In a soft, probing voice, she murmured, “He locked me in the basement…you know. Me and the other victims. It was so dirty—smelled horrible!”

Ilse blinked. The mention of the smell caused more memories to play across her own mind. Memories of her own past, more than twenty years ago. Memories of the Black Forest—and the small house. A basement. Others trapped there too. Her siblings.

“He would hurt some of the others. Would hurt me too.” Samantha sobbed suddenly, flipping over the page and staring at it. She blinked in confusion, glancing up. “This isn’t an article,” she said.

She turned the page to face Ilse. Indeed, instead of an article about a potential serial killer, it displayed text about a restoration projection for one of the nearby zoos.

“That’s all right,” said Ilse, staring at the paper. There had been no sense providing the actual document with the grisly details. Not yet, at least. Slow, incremental steps—that’s what mattered.

“I… I remember something else,” Sam said, suddenly. “I remember a strange rattling sound, like a flagpole out front. I remember screeching tires. My kidnapper would always leave in a hurry. Angrily. I could sometimes even smell the rubber. At least… I thought I could.” She shivered and glanced off. The single piece of paper clutched in her hand fluttered to the ground like the final leaf shed in autumn.

Ilse just stared at Samantha. Her own memories swirled up in her mind. Twenty years ago, a brutal kidnapper, other victims… Hilda Mueller. Black Forest. The small house in the woods. Ilse shivered, but forced a calm, placating smile across her lips. She shifted slowly, trying not to show her own thoughts.

Ilse could feel a trickle of fear along her spine now. Not because of her own memories being stirred up. Memories prompted by the similar experiences of her new client. But a different sort of fear. A genuine fear, as if examined beneath a microscope and declared authentic.