She frowned at the thought. If Samantha was in the hands of some maverick agent, maybe it was best she stick around. But what more could she say? What more could she add that was helpful?

Before she could speak, Agent Sawyer’s phone vibrated once. The man’s eyes darted to it like a hound spotting movement in the underbrush.

He cleared his throat, pressed a finger to the phone, then his eyebrows flicked up, a second later joined by his eyes which pierced her once more.

“Fake name,” he said.

Ilse blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Samantha Wright. Fake name. No records. No social security number. No address.” He gave a little puff of breath as if he were tired. “No social media accounts.”

Ilse frowned, but only for a moment. Then she nodded once. She felt a twist of unease in her belly. A fake name… Like Ilse Beck? Like her own situation. She shivered, hoping this Agent Sawyer didn’t dig too deeply into her own background.

“I see,” she said, quietly. “It isn’t uncommon, Agent Sawyer, for survivors of trauma to change their names in order to start their lives over. I’ve had other clients do the same.” She trailed off, but then added in a ghost of a whisper, wincing beneath the bright lights of the interrogation room, “Especially if they believe their tormentor is still out there.”

“Witness protection?” Sawyer said.

She blinked. “I—I don’t know anything about that.”

He sighed, crossing his arms and stowing his phone once more. “Just a possibility, I guess. Look, Dr. Beck, anything you can tell me might help. I know you think you’re doing right by your client, but what good is privileged information if Samantha is dead, hmm?”

“Agent, I promise you, if I thought I had anything useful, I’d tell it to you in a heartbeat. I want to help Samantha as much as you. That’s why I’m here. I… I think she’s still alive. She has to be. Why would her abductor take her to another location otherwise?” Ilse nodded more for herself than anything. She needed to believe Samantha was alive. She had to be.

Sawyer inhaled through his teeth, wincing for a moment as if against a sudden cold. “Bit of an impasse here, then. She’s a ghost. No records. Nothing. Can you at least tell me where she lived?”

Ilse paused. “I don’t know that.”

“Anything you got for me, Dr. Beck?”

“I wish I could. Really. I’ll help however I can.”

He sighed in resignation. Closing his eyes for a moment, he said, eyes still closed, as if he were in a bad dream, “Think you could stick around for a bit, then? You want to help. Something might come up. Something that jars that memory… and conscience of yours. Something that might get you to remember something useful.”

“I’m happy to help in any way I can,” Ilse said, reflexively. How could she refuse? She’d already failed her client. Already held on to information for too long, toeing the line between responsible and negligent as best she knew how.