“Yeah… I just don’t know what to do. What should I do?” What should I do about the postcards? About my surfacing memories? What should I do about lying to you for fifteen years? Ilse left the questions unvoiced. Not now. What good would it do now? Samantha was in trouble. Samantha mattered now. This wasn’t about Ilse. It wasn’t about Ilse’s baggage. She needed to help her client. Samantha had come to her, and Ilse had failed her.

Dr. Mitchell was shaking his head sadly, his eyes carrying an ache on Ilse’s behalf. He’d always had the ability to connect on a compassion level with his clients. Even the most difficult ones. Even the most dangerous ones. Ilse remembered seeing her old mentor hug a man on death row once, during a clinic at a prison. The man had dwarfed her instructor, but had broken down, bawling like a little babe in Dr. Mitchell’s arms.

“I’m not sure there’s much you can do, Becks,” he said gently. He took her hand, patting it. “If you’ve told the police, I’m sure they’re handling it, dear.”

She nodded slowly. “I—I know,” she said, clearing her throat. “But… I just feel like I need to… I don’t know.”

“There’s nothing to do, Ilse. I know it’s scary. But there isn’t anything to do except keep your phone near in case you can help the investigators. Would you like to come with me to the university? You could sit in on one of the classes. Teach it if you like—might get your mind off things.”

Ilse hesitated, gnawing her lip.

Smoothly, Dr. Mitchell said, “Or, if you like, I could call and cancel. Yes, I’ll cancel. We can go for a drive, or get breakfast or something.” He was fishing his phone out of his pocket already.

“No, don’t cancel,” Ilse said, quickly. “It’s fine. Really.” She exhaled. “It’s just… just I feel like she’s alive. I know she’s still alive.”

Dr. Mitchell nodded. But she could tell he didn’t agree. He didn’t say anything. He just nodded, showing he’d heard. He was a compassionate man, but not a bullshitter. He didn’t participate in his clients’ or students’ or friends’ delusions. He would listen, he would lend an ear, but he wouldn’t encourage anything he thought was untrue.

Dr. Mitchell was a truthful man.

So how had Ilse ended up living such a double life? Where was the truth in her?

Still, it was different. At least, she had to think it was. She couldn’t tell… not even her friend and mentor. Not anyone. Her fingers twitched once, and she massaged her pointer finger on her left hand briefly, feeling an old, cold ache as deep as bone.

“Ilse,” Dr. Mitchell said, softly. “Don’t play this out in your mind. Don’t do that to yourself. It is out of your hands now.”

“But it wasn’t,” she returned. “It wasn’t! I could have helped, and I didn’t.”

“Let’s go to breakfast. It’s a small class anyway. Besides, Johnson owes me a substitute. I’m sure that—”