2. Willow
2
WILLOW
A fter lunch, I slip my phone from my pocket and pull up today’s schedule. My heart sinks when I see that Axel Morrison isn’t listed.
What’s wrong with me?
Why am I disappointed about not having a session with a diagnosed psychopath?
I scroll through the schedule, searching until I spot his name.
Two days.
Our first session isn’t for two whole days.
Dr. Pierce’s warning echoes in my mind—maintain distance, stay clinical. I force myself to focus on my afternoon appointments instead.
“Ready for your two o’clock?” The guard asks.
“Yes, thanks.”
He returns a few minutes later with my next patient. He’s serving time for drug possession—no violent offences. He slouches in his chair but answers my questions without hostility. The session flows smoother than this morning’s disasters.
My three o’clock goes even better. We discussed his anxiety management techniques, and I actually feel like I’m helping. By four, I’m settling into a rhythm and growing more comfortable.
Between each session, my mind drifts to that name in my calendar: Axel Morrison. I push away the intrusive thoughts and focus on my current patients, who deserve my full attention.
Still, I catch myself rehearsing what I’ll say when I finally meet him. What questions I’ll ask. How I’ll maintain my composure while diving into his complicated mind.
I’m supposed to help these men, not count the hours until I can analyze the most dangerous one in person.
After my last patient leaves, I pull Axel’s file from my bag. The manila folder feels heavy, loaded with secrets.
I freeze when I see his convictions. Ten murder charges. Ten lives ended by his hands. Three more suspected victims were never found. The clinical language can’t mask the horror beneath—torture, mutilation, psychological games that broke his victims long before he killed them.
My stomach lurches at the crime scene photos. Each murder was more calculated than the last. Axel learned, adapted, and perfected his technique. The earlier bodies showed rage and impulse. The later ones were pure artistry in their brutality.
The psychological evaluations paint a picture of a man who weaponized his charm. Guards, fellow inmates, and his past psychologists noted his magnetic personality and ability to seem perfectly normal. Until he didn’t want to anymore.
I read the interview transcripts. Axel’s responses are measured and intelligent. He never breaks character and never reveals the monster beneath. A true psychopath hiding in plain sight.
I slam the file shut, but the images are burned into my mind. My office suddenly feels smaller. The walls press in. Any sane person would feel revulsion at what I just read, but I’m fascinated.
This man, this killer, will be sitting across from me in two days. Those same hands that ended ten lives will be across the desk from mine. That brilliant, twisted mind will be mine to explore.
I press my palms against my desk, trying to ground myself. What’s wrong with me? Normal people don’t get excited about meeting serial killers. They run the other way.
But I can’t stop thinking about those interview transcripts—the glimpses of his psyche and the pathology between the lines, the perfect mask he wears, and what lies beneath.
Two days. Just two days until I meet Axel Morrison.
A sharp knock breaks me from my thoughts. I shove Axel’s file into my desk drawer, my heart racing.
“Come in.”
A tall man with salt-and-pepper hair pokes his head in. “Dr. Matthews? I’m Dr. Jameson from the psych ward.” His smile reaches his eyes, crinkling the corners. “Thought I’d stop by and see how your first day went.”
“Oh, please.” I gesture to the chair across from my desk. “It’s nice to meet you.”
He settles in, crossing one leg over the other. “So, baptism by fire, huh? These first days can be rough.”
“That obvious?” I smooth my skirt, ignoring the lingering unease from reading the file. “This morning was challenging. One patient refused to even look at me the entire session.”
“Ah, yes. That happens more often than not.” Dr. Jameson leans forward. “But how about your afternoon sessions?”
“They went better, actually.” The tension in my shoulders eases as I recall my later appointments. “I had some really good conversations. One inmate opened up about his anxiety, and we made real progress on coping strategies.”
“That’s excellent. Sometimes, all it takes is one positive interaction to remind us why we chose this field.”
“Exactly.” I find myself matching his warm smile. “I’m feeling more confident now. More settled.”
“Good to hear. We’re a tight-knit team here. Whenever you need support or want to bounce ideas around, my door’s always open.”
Dr. Jameson’s eyes linger on my chest for a moment too long as I describe my afternoon sessions. My skin prickles with discomfort, but I keep talking, hoping I’m imagining things.
“You know,” he interrupts, leaning closer, “there’s a great little bar just down the street. Perfect spot to unwind after a tough first day. What do you say we continue this conversation over drinks?”
My stomach knots. He’s handsome, sure—distinguished features, fit for his age, kind smile. Under different circumstances, maybe. But something in his gaze sets off alarm bells.
“Oh, that’s...” I twist my hands in my lap, hating how my voice comes out small and uncertain. “That’s really nice of you to offer.”
“Come on, one drink won’t hurt.” His smile widens. “We can swap stories about our most interesting cases.”
The walls feel closer suddenly. I force myself to meet his eyes, summoning what I hope is an apologetic expression.
“I appreciate the invitation, but I’m completely exhausted.” I gesture at the stack of files on my desk. “First-day nerves, you know? Maybe we could take a rain check?”
His smile dims. “Of course, of course. Another time, then.”
I nod, relief washing over me as he stands to leave.
“My door’s always open,” he reminds me, lingering in the doorway. “For anything you need.”
The emphasis on anything makes my skin crawl.
“Thanks again, Dr. Jameson.” I manage a polite smile until he finally leaves my office.
I stuff files into my briefcase, trying to forget the predatory glimmer in his eyes. The facility feels different now, more oppressive. I check my phone to see that it’s five forty-five p.m.
Mom will have dinner ready soon.
The parking lot stretches before me, a sea of empty spaces under the setting sun. My sensible Toyota sits alone in the corner where I parked it this morning.
A car door slams somewhere behind me. My heart jumps into my throat, but it’s just another staff member leaving for the day.
The drive home takes twenty minutes, past familiar neighborhoods and storefronts. My breathing steadies as I pull into our driveway. Light spills from the kitchen window, and the smell of Mom’s lasagna greets me when I open the front door.
“Willow? That you, honey?”
“Yeah, Mom.” I drop my briefcase by the stairs and kick off my heels.
Mom appears in the doorway, wiping her hands on her apron. “How was your first day?”
“It was...” I pause, considering how much to share. No need to worry her with the details. “Different than I expected, but good, I think.”
“Come tell me all about it.” She hugs me, and I inhale her familiar vanilla and fabric softener scent. “I made your favorite.”
I sink into my kitchen chair, the familiar warmth of home wrapping around me like a blanket. Mom sets a steaming plate of lasagna in front of me, and the knots in my shoulders loosen.
“The morning was rough,” I admit. “One patient wouldn’t even look at me. Just sat there, silent. I felt so inadequate.”
Mom reaches across the table, squeezing my hand. “Everyone has tough starts, sweetie.”
“I know. Dr. Pierce—Eleanor—she was amazing, though. We had lunch together, and she shared stories from her early days. Made me feel less alone, you know?” The memory of our conversation brings a smile to my face. “She’s been there twenty years, heads the medical services. Such a wealth of knowledge.”
“That’s wonderful that you’ve found a mentor already.”
“The afternoon sessions went much better. One inmate really opened up about his anxiety. We made actual progress.” I take another bite, savoring the familiar taste of home. “It felt right like I was finally doing what I trained for.”
Mom beams at me, pride shining in her eyes. “See? I knew you could do it.”
“Oh, and I met another colleague. Dr. Jameson from the psych ward.” I push a piece of garlic bread around my plate. “He stopped by my office to check how my first day went.”
“That was nice of him.”
“Yeah, I guess.” I shrug, not meeting her eyes. “He invited me for drinks after work, but something felt off. I can’t explain it.”
“Always trust your instincts.” Mom’s voice takes on that protective edge I know so well. “If something doesn’t feel right, it probably isn’t.”
“Don’t worry, I turned him down.” I force a smile, not wanting her to stress. “Said I was too tired, which wasn’t exactly a lie. You know what?” I set down my fork, surprising myself. “Despite everything, I think today went better than I expected.”
Mom raises an eyebrow. “Even with that difficult patient this morning?”
“That’s just it.” I lean back, letting the kitchen’s warmth and Mom’s cooking wash over me. “Those first three sessions were awful. I felt like such a fraud, but then everything shifted after lunch. The other inmates actually listened. They shared. One even thanked me at the end of our session.”
“That’s wonderful.” Mom serves herself another helping of lasagna. “You’ve worked so hard for this.”
“I kept thinking about all the ways I could mess up. All the things that could go wrong.” I smile. “Instead, I had real conversations. Made actual connections. It feels right.”
“You’re glowing.” Mom reaches across the table to squeeze my hand. “This is exactly what you were meant to do.”
“Thanks, Mom.” I squeeze back, grateful for her unwavering support. “I know it’s the first day, but maybe I can do this. Maybe I’m not completely in over my head.”
The lasagna tastes better now, flavored with newfound confidence. Three difficult sessions couldn’t erase the victories that followed.