Control. Allowing the client control over the session. Control over her attention. Control over the pace of conversation.

Small methods, but all of them designed to help relax the client, to allow Ilse to help.

“I—I’m not crazy,” Sam murmured.

Ilse looked up, but not over, though she could still track her client out of her peripheral vision. Eye contact could be perceived as a threat. She kept her gaze focused on the window, staring out at the lake. Again, Ilse said nothing.

Sam winced, inhaling shakily, her breath rattling in her chest like a wheeze. “I—I hate that I can’t remember.” For a moment her voice cracked, but then she hid it in a cough, choosing anger now. “I couldn’t have been much older than seven, maybe eight…”

Ilse blinked now, her own memories surfacing for a moment. She pressed a finger to her maimed ear, but then lowered it again. Now her focus was on the client. On Samantha’s emotions. Samantha’s past mattered more in the hour they’d set aside.

“That’s very young. Only seven or eight,” Ilse murmured, simply mirroring back the words. Playing a role, though, repeating the thought aloud to prompt subsequent thoughts.

“I’ve lived in Seattle my entire life,” Sam murmured, softly. She glanced at Ilse, now, watching the other woman for a moment. “There are more serial killers in the Pacific Northwest per capita than anywhere else. Did you know that?”

Ilse had known that, and her frown flickered. Just this morning, on the radio, she’d heard word of a body found off an old trucker’s lane in the forest, near Seattle. Another serial killer, perhaps?

Take captive every thought… She shook her head. No sense allowing considerations of a killer to intrude. Her client needed Ilse’s full attention. Serial killer or not, Ilse wasn’t in the business of dealing with the dead victims of murderers. Rather, she specialized in the ones that killers left alive, whether on purpose or by accident.

“I don’t like sleeping,” Samantha said. “Or dreaming. I see him there. I always see him there. I don’t remember what he did… Why I managed to escape.” She shivered, shaking her head. “It’s all so horrible.”

Survivor’s guilt? PTSD, clearly. Ilse considered each for a moment.

“And these memories,” Ilse said, glancing over now. “They started surfacing in dreams?”

“Yes. Yes, horrible dreams. Bloody dreams.” Samantha whimpered, pulling at the sleeves of her sweater and shaking her head. “My mother doesn’t talk about it—she lies about it sometimes. But she always gets scared, quiet, when I ask her.”

“Ask her about what, Sam?”

The woman shook her head, staring at the lake, her eyes wide, unblinking, fixated as if on something in the distance. “The abduction,” she murmured. “How he took me…”

“You were only a child?”

“Seven, I think. Like I said, my mother lied about it.” Sam turned to Ilse sharply, staring at her. “I’m not crazy!”

“I don’t think you are.”

“No, really, I’m not! My mother doesn’t want me to think about it. She wants to pretend it never happened… But now… now I remember…” Samantha’s voice squeaked and she swallowed, blinking back tears all of a sudden.