Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
Dr. Red Mercer
The end of my previous session leaves a faint echo of restless energy inside the office, the kind that lingers whenever a patient digs through their past a little deeper than they expected.
Usually, I clear the emotional residue out with a walk down the hallway, a minute of quiet on the balcony, or an extra-long break outside.
It gives me time to breathe until my thoughts sharpen again.
Then I'm reset, anchored for the next client, and prepared for whatever they might throw my way.
Today, my schedule doesn't allow it.
Skylar Ivanov's voice runs through my mind. The tremor behind her steady tone exposed how much she tried to hold it together.
Parents often mask their terror under defensiveness, bravado, or blame, yet she exposed the edges of her concern with every carefully chosen word.
Adrian Ivanov had remained largely silent on the phone call, yet his quiet stance told me far more than his words would have. Men like him don't pause unless they sense danger. And possibly for the first time, he felt out of control when it came to his daughter.
Yet behind all of his protective fire was displaced confusion. He let a crack of uncertainty slip, making him no different from most fathers who bring their daughters to work with me. He wondered where he had gone wrong and where the line between love and delusion had blurred.
I understand that conflict too well.
It's what earned me top honors in every psychology program that accepted me. I don't treat patients by memorizing protocols. I dissect patterns, motivations, impulsivity, attachment, anticipation, deflection, and desire.
People reveal more through the spaces between their words than through their explanations. So I've spent my entire career paying attention to those spaces.
Which is why the story about their daughter did not surprise me.
The details did, along with the escalation. But the pattern was the same as that of other stalkers.
The Ivanovs want help for their daughter, but they also want absolution for themselves. The world will always judge a parent for a child's unraveling before the child ever has a chance to speak.
Now it's my turn to listen, and I need to be ready. I sit down and open the folder on my desk labeled Blue Ivanov. The stack isn't thick. There are no prior psychological treatment records, school intervention reports, or emotional development concerns noted by teachers.
The thin file means the real information hasn't been processed yet. I'm starting at ground zero. People who never receive help often learn to disguise everything. Since Blue's twenty-five, my guess is she has more layers than an onion.
I've got my work cut out for me.
I study the only thing I do have, which I required to take Blue on as a new patient.
Skylar's written summary is calmer than her voice had been. Adrian's statement is raw, aggressive, and defensive. Both are incomplete.
I read each line again anyway.
Self-inflicted injury.
Stalking behaviors.
Obsession with a married man.
Break-ins.
Lies woven into a web precise enough to fool them until she slipped.
Many therapists would begin this first session already diagnosing. I won't. Labels can become cages. Symptoms are only footprints leading toward the truth, but I can't skip over what I already know.
This girl is in trouble.
I check the time. There are seven minutes until Blue's appointment. I stand, straighten the books on the credenza, adjust the angle of the chair opposite mine, then undo it and adjust again. I set my palms on the windowsill overlooking the building's courtyard, tapping the marble.
The sky stretches in a muted afternoon palette, a soft haze of light filtering between clouds. The day should be calm, predictable, controlled. My two early morning sessions this morning were routine, even comforting in their familiarity.
Then came the email from my assistant.
Your new patient, Blue Ivanov, is confirmed for 9:00 a.m.
A name shouldn't raise tension in my chest. It shouldn't tilt the rhythm of my thoughts. Yet something about the girl described to me carries the sharp gleam of a blade no one sees until it's too late.
It's just because I don't have enough information on her.
This is why I don't take patients unless the hospital refers them.
When my previous client's mother called, begging me to help, I couldn't say no.
Kora Ivanov's a brilliant attorney. She found a way to get me out of my non-compete with the hospital while convincing them to send their outpatient referrals to me.
It allowed me to have my own practice and get out of their bureaucracy without losing my pension.
So I couldn't tell her I wouldn't work with her other family member in need.
My phone buzzes, and Shirley's voice interjects, "Your nine is here."
"Thank you," I say, rise, and open the door to the waiting room.
Blue sits on the sofa across from the window, legs crossed, back straight, eyes fixed on a spot on the floor in front of her as though she is studying invisible debris only she can see.
For a moment, all I register is color. Her bright blue hair cascades in loose waves around her shoulders, not subtle or shy.
It's intentional, a declaration, and demands attention without asking permission. It's impossible to overlook.
Before I introduce myself, she lifts her head. Her icy-blue eyes catch mine, and something quiet but unyielding moves between us.
The stillness before a storm shifts direction.
I study her, taking in eyes far too clear to match the fragile posture she's arranged herself in. Her pupils are too steady, the color so vivid it borders on impossible. They track the shape of me with the kind of concentration usually reserved for something forbidden.
A flicker of tension coils along the center of my chest, the kind I haven't encountered in years. Her eyes don't match her presentation, and the contradiction throws my instincts off-balance.
She rises, slow, graceful, deliberate. She crafted her body with precision.
Every line of her curves is framed by clothing chosen with strategy.
Her fitted top in powder blue tucked into a short, pleated skirt, dainty jewelry, and nails painted the same electric shade as her hair, screams deliberate.
She stands with the confidence of someone who knows she's beautiful and has long studied how her presence impacts a room.
It's not what I expected. She's far more explosive beneath the surface.
Something sharp ignites behind my sternum, and without meaning to, I prioritize her above every patient I've taken on in the last decade. She becomes the puzzle I'm suddenly, disturbingly hungry to decode. I extend my hand. "Blue?"
She steps closer than necessary when she takes it.
A current runs up my arm, unexpected, unwelcome, disorienting. It's a sudden burst of charged awareness, like my nerves have recalibrated themselves without consent.
Her lips tilt. "Dr. Mercer," she says, voice gentle, almost whisper-soft. "I wasn't sure if your pictures online did you justice, but they don't."
The comment is wildly inappropriate, yet her delivery is so smooth, it almost passes as innocent admiration. Almost.
I withdraw my hand slower than I should. "Let's go inside."
A tiny curl forms on her lips. She walks past me, her warm and sweet scent a blend I can't name but digging into me. I catch myself tracking it longer than necessary.
Cut it out.
She enters the office like she's memorizing it, eyes trailing along the bookshelves, the framed degrees, the antique hourglass on the corner table, the navy leather chairs, and she finally settles on the arrangement of pens on my desk.
I stay silent, taking her in.
She turns and watches me, waiting for my response.
Another test.
I motion to the chair opposite mine. "Have a seat."
She lowers herself elegantly, crossing her legs in a rhythm engineered to draw attention. The hem of her skirt shifts a fraction higher. She doesn't adjust it.
I sit across from her, spine straight, hands relaxed. I keep my tone calm. "Before we begin, I want to acknowledge that starting therapy can come with complicated emotions. You may be nervous, frustrated, confused, or all of the above. Whatever arises, we'll work with it."
She watches my mouth while I speak. Not my eyes. Not my hands. My mouth.
Her lashes lift. "You're very formal."
"This is an initial consultation."
Her lips form a soft pout that is entirely practiced. "Do you talk to all your patients like this?"
"Yes."
"Even the ones with blue hair?"
I admit, "I don't have any other clients with blue hair."
"Do you like it? I changed it last night. Did it myself." A dimple flashes at the corner of her cheek, an unexpectedly sweet detail that clashes with everything else about her.
She knows it's disarming.
She uses it with intention.
She's a fascinating creature.
Tread carefully.
I reply, "You're asking for personal preference."
"Personal preferences reveal things," she replies.
"Some things are not relevant here."
She tilts her head, studying me the way a cat studies a toy it wants to bat off a table. "I think you like it."
I redirect, "We're here to talk about you. Not about me."
Her shoulders rise slightly, the motion delicate, then relax. "Fine. What do you want to know? I'm an open book."
Sure, you are.
I open the folder on my lap. "Your parents told me you work in fashion."
She brightens instantly, the transformation almost theatrical.
"My mother owns a fashion line. I design pieces.
Mostly skirts and dresses. I do some custom work for friends.
Oh, I post things online." She smiles sweetly, then rises.
She walks to my desk and picks up my vintage hourglass.
She tips it upside down and watches the sand fall.
I ask, "How long have you been doing that?"
"A few years," she says.
"You're twenty-five?"