Fernanda, always sensitive to his moods, crossed the floor to lean against his knee, and he reached down to stroke her silky ears. When he’d first dreamed of starting his own clinic, more than fifteen years ago, he would jot down notes, in the idle moments between patients, on his vision of an ideal psychiatric care setting. In those heady days of his relative youth, he’d imagined a high-class facility for healing the mind and spirit that lacked the look or feel of a typical clinic. No stark furnishings or clinically sterile patient rooms, and no visible barriers of any kind.

The place he imagined would reflect the beauty of its mountain setting. Natural materials and soft lighting. Gardens and landscaped grounds for the patients to stroll in. No locked doors or high fences. But in the aftermath of Ismail’s death, he would have to reconsider his entire philosophy. Today, he would meet with his head of Security to discuss alternative means of securing the boundary.

An email from one of the house attendants popped up on his computer screen, informing Gessen of his resignation, effective immediately. Apparently, the man’s mother had suddenly taken ill, and there was no one else at home to care for her. Home was a village in Slovenia, if Gessen recalled correctly. That the attendant was assigned to Ismail’s chalet was mildly disconcerting. Was there a connection? Perhaps he felt responsible in some way, or was it something else? He had already been questioned by the police, so there was no reason to suspect anything was amiss. Gessen signed off on the request, and wrote a brief note wishing the man well, before sticking it in the outgoing admin tray for Mathilde to handle.

On the top of a stack of mail, a thick envelope from a law firm in Geneva stopped him cold. No need to guess what that might be. In a follow-up phone call from Ismail’s father, after their initial heartbreaking conversation when he’d told the man his son was dead, Mr Mahmoud, deranged with grief, had bellowed into Gessen’s ear, cursing him with a lifetime of torment and torture. Vowing to sue and shut down the clinic. He would follow Gessen to the ends of the earth, not stopping to rest until the man responsible for his son’s death was behind bars.

Overwhelmed by a feeling of doom, he sliced open the envelope with a penknife. On behalf of Bélanger, Lacroix, and Moreaux, we are writing to inform you that… It was indeed what he’d expected. He was being sued for gross negligence and wrongful death. Gessen dropped the letter on the desk and slumped in his chair.

A discreet knock, and Mathilde peeked through the half-open door. The alarm in her eyes spoke volumes. He must look a wreck.