The child stared at her father, wincing. His mismatched eyes glared down at her—one blue, one brown, both full of rage. She knew he was probably lying. He often did. The kinder his tone became, the gentler it was, the more likely the dishonesty.

Then again, what choice did she have? Eventually, if she kept trying to avoid him, her father would call one of her bigger siblings. They’d restrain her, and he’d use the scissors anyway.

She sighed in soft resignation and stepped forward, toward the base of the stairs where her father stood.

He pounced with a victorious cry, his face twisting now into a tapestry of rage. His hand yanked at her small arm, dragging her forward; the scissors flashed down.

Only your hair.

Of course, he’d been lying. He always did…

Ilse Beck’s eyes snapped open, fixating on the client who sat across from her on the soft couch. The memories of ten-year-old Hilda Mueller were replaced now by those of thirty-two-year-old Ilse Beck. Ilse stared wide-eyed for a moment at her client—whose eyes were also closed for the memory exercise. Ilse swallowed, clenching her fist slowly, one hand reaching up to probe at her ear… Part of one lobe missing, long since scarred. A wound from more than twenty years ago.

She shivered at the memory, her fingers trailing along her cheek with the healed scar. As the silence stretched, she recited the words in her mind, Lindholm. Brown hair. Blue eyes. Twenty-eighteen. Four victims. Released. Compulsive behavior… Slowly, her eyes settled on her client across from her; she forced herself to calm, glancing over her client’s shoulder, through the glass patio windows at the gray lake surrounded by large homes and green trees.

For a moment, her gaze on the swishing, chill waters beneath the dark skies, she found her heartbeat steadying. Inhale, exhale, slowly. The scent of the water, the chill air through the mosquito screen wafted over her cheeks. She glanced down at her clothes—a turtleneck sweater and sweatpants. Good enough for work. The clients never seemed to mind. Besides, many of them found the unprofessional, relaxed nature of her lakefront home office and easy demeanor to be calming.

Then her client, eyes still closed, murmured, “I’m sorry, Dr. Beck, but I don’t think this is working.”

Ilse’s attention fixated back on her client, zeroing in. The woman had neat blonde hair tied back in a ponytail, and two heart-shaped earrings framing a pleasant face.

Ilse’s own hair was more black than brown. She reached up and brushed at her bangs. Unlike most women, though, instead of pushing her fringe back behind her ear, she brushed it forward, hiding the missing lobe and most of the scar.

“That’s quite all right, Samantha,” she said, softly. “We can try something else.”

The blonde-haired woman opened her eyes. “Just Sam, please.”

Ilse held up an apologetic hand. “Sam, great. I know this is only our first session, Sam, but I hope you know I’m here to help.”