“A few years back, I was driving to my grandmother’s house and saw this car. It was sitting out in the middle of a field and…I don’t know…it tripped something, and I almost passed out. I had the same reaction in court this morning. I thought it might also be a trigger or something.”

“It’s hard to say. With all the work being done in the field of PTSD, we still don’t have a full understanding of how triggers work. The men who assaulted you had left you in a car in a field, so I can see why that car would have triggered you. But the guy in court—is there any chance you’d met him before?”

“There’s nothing in his file to suggest that we ever crossed paths. He wasn’t even in Minnesota at the time of my attack.”

“Was there anything unusual about him—anything that stands out?”

“He had a lisp, a heavy one, but I don’t remember anyone from my past like that.”

Roberts put his hands together, fist in palm, as he considered Lila’s suggestion. “Triggers aren’t necessarily tied to concrete things we remember. Sometimes a trigger could be associated with something deeper in the subconscious.”

“That’s why I wanted to see you. We did that one session with Dr. Eggert when she hypnotized me. I was wondering if I said anything about a guy with a lisp when I was under. I know it’s a long shot.”

Roberts stood, walked to his desk, and retrieved Lila’s file. After returning to his chair, he paged through the papers to find a particular set of notes, pausing to read to himself.

“You talked about a guy named John.” Roberts let the file tip away as he raised his eyes to look at Lila. “That would be your friend’s boyfriend?”

Lila nodded without making eye contact with Dr. Roberts.

“Did you ever resolve things between you and…”

“Sylvie.”

“Right, Sylvie.”

“I tried, but…” Lila trailed off, unable to continue the lie. But was it a lie? On the one-year anniversary of her suicide attempt, Lila drove to Sylvie’s house and sat in the car for almost an hour, trying to build up the courage to knock on her door. In the end, she couldn’t do it. Did that count?

Roberts returned to his notes, cocking his head slightly as something snagged his attention. “There is something here. You mentioned a man…you couldn’t understand him, like he was drunk. You said he slurred.”

Lila leaned in. “He slurred? Did I describe what he looked like?”

“No. You had no memory of his face. Did the police interview anyone with a lisp?”

“I don’t know.”

“That’s all I have,” Roberts said, folding the file closed. “There’s nothing more about anyone with a lisp—just that one mention of a slur.”