“See, Hilda,” he had said, his voice raspy. “Do you see what can be done to something so small? You are very small too.”

Hilda shivered, staring at the pigeon, now little more than a lump of meat and feathers in her father’s hands.

She heard the rattle of the cage and glanced down. Another bird, flitting about behind mesh, metal bars. A bird purchased only that morning, purchased by her father. Briefly, little Hilda had thought perhaps her father was bringing her a pet. But of course, she should have known better. At least this time, he hadn’t left it with his children for a week, allowing them to bond with it first. Perhaps he’d intended to, but had simply gotten too excited about the prospect of what he wanted.

“It’s easy,” he’d said. “See, just like I did. The neck is very fragile. Go on, now it’s your turn.”

Ten-year-old Hilda Mueller stared at the little pigeon glancing around from its perch in the cage.

Maybe it was looking for its friend. She glanced toward the broken mess on the table in front of her father, at the blood streaking his teeth.

“I don’t want to,” she’d said, pleading. “Please.”

“Hilda,” her father snapped, his voice turning to fury just as quickly as most people smiled. “Either you do that to it, or I’ll do it to you!”

Ilse shivered, feeling tears coming down her cheeks, and she snapped back to the present, blinking aside the recollection.

The memory drifted away, back behind the closed door in her mind, where she had locked it away all those years ago. She opened her front door now and stared at the empty driveway, toward the old road meandering through the trees. She was safe now, though. Could the same thing be said for Samantha?

Ilse forced her mind to switch track, to allow the repressed memory to drift once more, flitting along, like seaweed drifting to the bottom of the ocean, buried by the deep in the dark.

Samantha, yes. Focus on her client. Focus on someone else.

With trembling fingers, she reached toward her mailbox, if only to have something to do. The memories, when they returned, sometimes came like a wallop to the chest. And sometimes they snuck up in dreams, robbing her sleep.

It had been years, though, since she’d collapsed under them. Years since she’d completely capitulated to the demands of terror.

Take captive every thought.

She began to sort through her mail, standing on the threshold, cycling from one bill to another. Junk, a local restaurant. And then…

She frowned, staring at a postcard.

It took her a moment, but then she stiffened. The rest of the mail fell from her hands, scattering across the ground like feathers from a bird.

She stared at the postcard, her breathing coming rapidly, irregularly.

She swallowed, unblinking

The postcard displayed a picture she recognized. A landscape photo of trees, and inclines, and mountains. Not so dissimilar to the surrounding area outside Seattle.