Ilse held her breath, counting softly and releasing it at once. Those postcards were from someone. Not Mitchell. Someone who knew her past. Who knew more than they should. Someone had found her. Maybe her father… who else could it be?

At that moment, Ilse heard the sound of crunching dirt, and she whirled back to find Agent Sawyer approaching them, a frown on his face. He brushed a hand through his prematurely silver hair and swallowed as if tasting something sour.

“How’s the cut?” he said, directing the question to the paramedics.

“Not too bad,” said one. “We can bandage it here. Clean it up. It’s mostly superficial. A bleeder, but not dangerous.”

Sawyer sighed, crossing his arms over his flannel shirt. “She staying at the hospital?”

One of the paramedics shrugged. “Might be good for observation. Just for the night.”

The moment he said it, though, Samantha began to shake. “No,” she said, desperately. “No. He’ll find me there. I know he will. No! No! No!”

“Ms. Wright,” one paramedic said quickly, “please calm down. You’ll rip out the IV.”

“I’m fine!” she said, desperately. “Don’t take me to the hospital. No! No!” Her voice grew even louder, and surrounding police began to glance over.

The paramedics shrugged toward Agent Sawyer.

“You live nearby?” he said.

“I don’t want to go home either,” Samantha replied, her voice trembling.

Sawyer’s eyes flashed with something akin to pity. But just as quickly, he hid it, speaking slowly, gently, his tone neutral, but relentlessly pressing forward. A solution-oriented man, no doubt. An action-oriented fellow.

“Friends, family?” he said, quietly. “You need somewhere safe to stay. We could post a cop at the hospital.”

“What will that do!” she yelled. “He’ll find me! He’ll find me!”

Ilse listened, feeling her own sense of guilt rising. She should have listened to her client the first time around. She should have believed her, instead of writing her off as paranoid. She’d nearly died. She’d been left to bleed out in a room of corpses.

All of it was Ilse’s fault.

She’d failed…

Now, as she watched the wide-eyed look of panic, like a spooked mare trapped in a barn, Ilse could feel her conscience jolt. She thought of Dr. Mitchell. Once her own therapist and teacher, now a friend. More than once she’d been to Dr. Mitchell’s home for dinner. He kept her safe when she was scared. More than once he’d invited her to join his family for Thanksgiving, for Christmas, for birthdays…

She knew the dangers of getting too close to a client, though. Strange stories. Boundaries best left uncrossed.

But Samantha had given a cry for help, and Ilse had nearly let her get killed.

She felt the guilt, felt the gaping maw of the shack behind her as if the doors themselves wanted to reach out and swallow.

What if Samantha was right again? What if the killer tried to track her down? Ilse glanced at the little sticky note with the smiley face. Then, steeling herself, she looked up.