10. Chapter 10
Caroline
The week after Colt left for inpatient care, I saw six patients and remembered almost nothing about any of them.
My calendar was full. My schedule was packed.
Every slot was occupied by people who needed me, who relied on my expertise and objectivity and professional distance.
It was exactly what I'd wanted—enough work to keep my mind occupied, enough distractions to prevent me from thinking about the moment in the warehouse locker room when I'd almost kissed him.
Except I thought about it constantly anyway.
Between sessions, I found myself staring at my case files without actually reading them. During lunch, I sat at my desk and replayed the argument.
The way his anger had shifted into something else when I'd admitted my own trauma. The way he'd touched my face. The way I'd lifted my head expecting him to close the distance.
By Wednesday, I recognized what was happening. I was obsessing. Over a patient I'd referred out. Over a man I could never professionally treat again. Over someone who was supposed to be safely in a psychiatric facility working with another therapist.
I called Dr. Patricia again.
"I need supervision," I said without preamble. "Full clinical supervision. Starting today."
We met at her office on Friday afternoon. I walked through the history of my work with Colt—the clinical progression, the therapeutic breakthroughs, and then the moment where everything shifted. The phone call at 4 a.m. The intensity of the therapy sessions. The near-kiss in the warehouse.
Dr. Patricia listened without interrupting. When I finished, she set down her pen, and she looked at me over her reading glasses.
"You referred him out," she said. It wasn't a question.
"Immediately after the incident. Dr. Williamson is treating him now."
"And you're experiencing emotional aftermath."
"Intense emotional aftermath," I corrected. "I can't stop thinking about him. I can't focus on my other patients. I'm professionally compromised in ways that make me deeply uncomfortable."
"These feelings—are they impacting your ability to function clinically with other patients?"
I wanted to lie. Wanted to say that I was maintaining professional standards with everyone else, that my obsession with Colt was contained and manageable. But Dr. Patricia had been my therapist once, and she knew when I was bullshitting.
"No," I admitted. "But I'm aware that I'm at risk. And I'm aware that if anyone from the ethics board heard about what happened in that warehouse, my license could be in jeopardy."
"What did happen in the warehouse?" she asked carefully.
"Nothing. We both stepped back. It didn't go further than almost kissing. And I terminated the therapeutic relationship immediately after."
"But you wanted it to go further."
"Yes," I said, and the admission felt enormous. "I wanted it to go further. I still want it to go further. And that's exactly why I can't be his therapist anymore."
Dr. Patricia leaned back in her chair. "Caroline, what you're experiencing is a normal human response to an emotionally intense therapeutic relationship.
The power differential, the vulnerability, the intimacy of trauma work—it creates attachment.
That attachment can feel like love. But it's important to sit with it and understand what it actually is. "
"I don't think it's transference," I said quietly. "I think I actually care about him."
"Then here's the difficult question: is that caring informed by who he actually is, or is it informed by who he was as your patient?"
The question hit harder than I expected.
Because it forced me to acknowledge something I'd been avoiding.
That some of my feelings might be rooted in the dynamic between us—the fact that he'd needed me, that I'd been able to help him, that for a moment I'd felt like I was actually making a difference in someone's life.
But underneath that was something else. Something that wasn't about power or transference or the intoxicating feeling of being needed.
It was the memory of him touching my face. His voice when he'd said "I need you." The way his anger at me had come from a place of genuine care about my wellbeing, not just reaction to being challenged.
"I think I care about him as a person," I said slowly. "Not as a patient. Not because of the dynamic. As an actual person who's gone through hell and is trying to survive it and is stronger than he thinks he is."
Dr. Patricia nodded like I'd confirmed something she'd already suspected.
"Then here's what happens next. He finishes his inpatient care.
He continues with Dr. Williamson or another therapist. You do not contact him.
You do not try to reestablish the relationship.
You give yourself time and distance to determine if your feelings are real or if they're a response to trauma bonding.
And you continue with supervision because you've crossed an ethical line, even if you ultimately made the right decision. "
"How much time?"
"At least six months. Possibly longer."
Six months felt like torture. But she was right. Professional ethics existed for a reason. I couldn't be his therapist, and being anything else while he was actively in crisis treatment would be a form of harm, not help.
"Okay," I said. "Six months."
By the end of the week, I was attempting to distract myself by diving deeper into Colt's case file. It was an odd choice for distraction—reading documentation about his torture wasn't exactly emotionally healthy—but I found myself pulled into the inconsistencies.
The interrogation reports mentioned three interrogators present during most sessions.
But the names listed didn't always match the shift logs.
One officer—someone identified as Detective Raymond—appeared in the case file as part of the arresting detail, but the federal background check I pulled showed he was listed as deceased two years before Colt's capture.
That didn't add up.
I made a spreadsheet. Pulled all the names from the black-site documentation.
Cross-referenced them with the official police records.
Found more anomalies. More details that didn't quite line up.
More evidence that something about how Colt was captured and interrogated didn't match the official narrative.
I was so focused on the inconsistencies that I almost forgot about the charity event Lena had invited me to.
The gala was being held at a downtown hotel to benefit the recovery programs Lena ran.
There were silent auctions, live music, and what appeared to be nearly every connected person in McAllen's underground network.
I recognized several Serpent Sinners members present—brothers I'd read about in case files, men whose names came up in connection with security operations and territorial disputes.
But they weren't what I expected.
The man I'd read was a career criminal was sitting at a table with a young woman, patiently helping her practice job interview questions. The prospect I'd heard described as hyperviolent was volunteering at the silent auction, helping elderly donors understand the bidding process.
The VP of the club—Ditch—was speaking passionately about the new shelter they were funding for trafficking survivors.
These weren't monsters. They were people who'd chosen to build something, despite everything that had been taken from them.
Lena found me staring at the crowd with what was probably a confused expression.
"Seeing something that surprises you?" she asked.
"I've been treating Colt's case file like a crime scene," I said. "Looking at the violence. The trauma. The criminal networks. And I missed the part where all of this is actually about people trying to heal."
"The Serpent Sinners aren't good because they're righteous," Lena said carefully.
"They're complicated. They do illegal things.
They use violence when they determine it's necessary.
But their core motivation—the reason Colt let himself get captured in the first place—was to protect people.
To save lives. That's not criminal. That's just a way of operating that exists outside the official legal system because the official system has failed. "
I watched Ditch across the room. Watched the way he interacted with the auction attendees. Watched how the club members deferred to him not out of fear but out of respect. These were men with loyalty and purpose and a code that existed parallel to mainstream society.
It made understanding Colt infinitely more complicated.
The charity event ended around midnight. I was walking to my car when I found myself thinking about him again.
Not as a patient this time. As a man. As someone who'd trusted me enough to be vulnerable. Someone who'd walked away from me because it was the right thing to do.
And I realized that in six months, if my feelings hadn't changed, I might have a choice to make.
I could maintain professional distance and spend the rest of my career knowing that I'd chosen ethics over a genuine connection. Or I could wait for the appropriate time, when there was no therapeutic relationship between us, and I could acknowledge that what I felt was real.
The thought terrified me. Because it meant accepting that I was capable of feeling something beyond the careful control I'd maintained for so long. It meant allowing someone to matter enough to hurt. It meant choosing vulnerability over safety.
Back at my apartment, I pulled out Colt's file again, and I focused on the inconsistencies.
If something was wrong with the official narrative of his capture, it meant the danger might not actually be over. It meant someone might still be lying about what happened. It meant the network that had taken him might not actually be as dismantled as everyone believed.
I made another call to Dr. Patricia.
"I'm noticing inconsistencies in Colt's case file," I said. "Details that don't match official records. Detective names that don't exist. Shift logs that contradict interrogation reports."
"What are you thinking?" Dr. Patricia asked carefully.
"I'm thinking that someone lied about what happened to him. And I'm thinking that if someone lied about his capture, there might be a reason. A reason that involves ongoing danger."
"That's above your pay grade, Caroline."
"Maybe. But it's also not outside my responsibility as a therapist. If there are active threats that Colt isn't aware of, he needs to know. Dr. Williamson needs to know."
"Then you report it through proper channels. You reach out to Ditch or someone in the club's leadership. You don't play detective."
"I'm not playing detective," I said. "I'm doing something I should have done weeks ago. I'm questioning the official narrative because my instincts tell me something is wrong."
After I hung up, I sat with my spreadsheet and my notes and my growing conviction that Colt's case was far more complicated than anyone in his therapeutic circle understood.
Which meant his danger might be far from over.
And which meant that six months of professional distance wouldn't protect him if someone was actively hunting him.
I reached for my phone to call Ditch, then stopped myself.
Not yet. First I needed to understand what I was actually looking at. First I needed to verify my suspicions instead of going to the club with incomplete information. First I needed to make sure I wasn't just obsessing over Colt's file as an excuse to maintain some form of connection to him.
But I was going to figure this out. And if my suspicions were correct, I was going to make sure Colt knew the truth.
Even if it meant violating professional boundaries again.
Because some things—some people—mattered more than the rules.