Chapter 10
Her
The door clicks shut behind me, and the sound echoes in my chest like a lock turning on a cage I didn't know I was stepping into. It's final, that noise. Too solid to pretend I can just walk back out and forget this ever happened.
My feet hesitates just inside the doorway, carrying me deeper into the room, but my mind races ahead, screaming that I've crossed a line I can't uncross.
Therapy. The word still tastes foreign, like something I agreed to in a haze of hospital lights and Maddie's pleading eyes, but now, here, it feels like surrender wrapped in a white coat.
Across the space, two chairs face each other, separated by a small table that holds nothing but a notepad and a pen. Simple, unthreatening, but it makes my stomach twist anyway.
The man in the chair closest to the window looks up from his notes.
His expression is composed, unreadable. A blank canvas that gives nothing away, and that both grounds me and sets my nerves on edge.
There's a steadiness to him, like he could anchor a storm without raising his voice, but it unsettles me too, because what if that calm sees right through the walls I've barely started building?
He sets his pen down with deliberate care, rising halfway from his seat in a gesture that's polite but not overly warm.
“Good morning, Miss Iris.” He says, his voice smooth and even, carrying a faint accent I can’t place. Eastern European, maybe, but softened by years elsewhere.
“I’m Dr. Nathaniel Ashcroft. Please, take a seat. Whenever you’re ready.”
I nod, but my feet feel glued for a beat longer than they should, my mind snagging on the news segment from the waiting room. The grainy images of that poor guy, Ethan Scott, his body marked in ways that stuck like burrs.
I force a step forward, lowering myself into the chair opposite him, the cushion yielding under me like it’s trying to swallow my hesitation. The table between us feels too small now, a flimsy barrier against whatever this hour will drag out of me.
He settles back, crossing one leg over the other with an ease that makes the room feel smaller, and waits, his gaze patient but direct.
“You seem lost in thought already.” He observes, no judgment in his tone, just a gentle nudge. “What’s on your mind right now?”
I blink, heat creeping up my neck because he’s right. I zoned out the second I sat, that TV report replaying unbidden. A nervous laugh bubbles out, too sharp in the quiet, and I wave it off like it’s nothing, even though my hands twist in my lap.
“Oh, it’s nothing. Just… a news thing I caught while waiting. Stupid, probably. My brain latches onto random crap when I’m nervous.”
He tilts his head slightly, that composed mask holding steady, inviting without pushing.
“Not stupid at all. News can stick with us, especially if it hits a nerve. What was the segment about? If you don’t mind sharing.”
I hesitate, fingers picking at a loose thread on my jeans, because talking about it feels like opening a side door when the main one’s bolted shut.
But his voice is so calm, so controlled. Almost too perfect, like he’s measured every syllable to avoid startling me.
“It was about this murder.” I say finally. “Some guy named Ethan Scott. A cashier, nothing fancy. They found him in his flat, beaten bad. Tortured, actually. The reporter said he had no enemies, no drama, just a quiet life that ended brutal. Showed these photos that made my skin crawl.”
Dr. Ashcroft nods slowly, his pen resting idle on the notepad, not scribbling yet, which eases something tight in my chest because it feels less like interrogation and more like conversation.
“That sounds disturbing.” He says. “Murders like that often leave us reeling because they remind us how fragile control is. What part of the story caught you? The brutality, or something else?”
I shift in the seat, the cushion creaking faintly, and glance down at my hands.
“The brutality, yeah. But mostly… one of the images. They mentioned cuts. Shallow ones. From a blunt knife. Not random. Like the killer took his time. Made them deliberate. Almost like a signature or something.”
He leans forward just a fraction. And that’s when I really see him. Doctors aren’t supposed to look like this.
He’s handsome in a way that catches you off guard, not polished-pretty but quietly arresting. Thick, dark hair falls in soft waves, neatly kept but unwilling to lie completely flat.
His face is sharply defined, strong jawline, prominent cheekbones, a straight, well-proportioned nose, features that should feel severe, but don’t. A hint of stubble softens the edges, grounding him.
His eyes are light, piercing, set beneath dark brows that give his gaze an unsettling depth, like he notices more than he lets on.
Square-rimmed glasses rest on his nose, doing nothing to dull that intensity, if anything, they sharpen it, making him look precise. Observant. Dangerous in a quiet way.
He can’t be more than thirty-one or thirty-two, just past the threshold of youth, not yet worn down by it.
His build is solid, broad-shouldered, muscular without trying to show it.
Defined arms, strong forearms visible beneath rolled sleeves.
He sits with an easy, confident posture, like the room belongs to him without needing to prove it.
“A signature.” He repeats softly, not mocking. “That’s an intriguing way to see it. Why do you think that detail stuck with you? Does it connect to something personal, or is it the precision that unsettles you?”
His question hangs there, gentle but probing, and I feel a flush of discomfort because it’s too close to the bone.
“I don’t know.” I admit. “Maybe the precision. It’s creepy, right? Like the killer wasn’t just angry. He was… marking it. I’ve seen something like that before, I think. A cut like it. But I can’t place where.”
He doesn’t press, just nods once.
“Memories can surface in odd ways, especially under stress.” He says. “It’s okay if it doesn’t click right now. We can circle back. For now, let’s shift gears. How are you feeling in this moment, sitting here?”
The question lands soft, but it exposes me all the same, sitting across from him with my name, age, and overdose scribbled somewhere in that notepad, like I'm already a file, a case study for his research paper.
I feel stripped, knowing he knows the basics, the hospital bed, the pills, the video that's turned my life into campus gossip, but not the raw underbelly, the stalker who's made me a ghost in my own skin.
Tiredness weighs on me like a blanket too heavy to shrug off, numbness threading through it all, and overwhelm bubbles under the surface, threatening to spill if I poke too hard.
"I... I'm not sure." I admit, my words halting, because "fine" feels like a lie and "broken" too dramatic. "Tired, mostly. Like I've been running for days and can't stop. Numb in spots, too, like my brain's buffering, you know? And overwhelmed. Everything piles up so fast."
He listens without a flicker, his gaze sharp but patient, giving me space to breathe between sentences. That lack of interruption makes me fidget, because silence from him feels like an invitation to fill it, whether I want to or not.
"Overwhelmed by what, specifically?" He asks when I trail off, his tone light, curious rather than demanding.
I laugh again, a short, awkward bark that doesn't hide the edge of panic, because joking feels safer than truth right now.
“Honestly? I'm not even sure why I'm here. Therapy seemed like a good idea in the hospital. Maddie and Al ganged up on me, and who argues with that? But now... I don't know. Feels like a misunderstanding. Like I overreacted to a bad stretch. I'll bounce back. Always do."
The words hang there, my defense mechanism kicking in hard, but he doesn't call me on it, just tilts his head with that composed nod, his blue eyes holding mine steady without pressure.
"A misunderstanding." He echoes, not sarcastic, just reflective. "That's an interesting framing. Tell me more about that. What makes you think this is something you'll just bounce back from, without needing extra support?"
Hesitation grips me, my fingers drumming silent on my knee because opening up means cracking the door to the stalker, the video, Ryan's hands too tight around my throat. And I can't, not yet, not to this stranger who looks like he stepped out of a magazine but sees too much.
"I guess... I've handled worse." I say slowly, picking my words like stepping stones over a pit.
"Lost my parents young. Car crash. Scholarship kid scraping by.
Stuff like that builds calluses, right? This recent mess, school drama, boyfriend crap, it's just noise.
I'll shake it off. Therapy's for people who can't."
He absorbs it without flinching, his pen finally moving once across the notepad. Not frantically, just a note to mark the moment and his voice stays that calm anchor, too perfect in its evenness.
"Calluses are useful." He agrees, a hint of warmth creeping in that surprises me. "They protect. But sometimes they thicken over wounds that need air. You mentioned your parents. That sounds like a deep loss. If it's too soon to go there, that's fine. What about home? Is it a safe space for you?"
The question skirts close to Ryan, to the flat that feels like a trap now. I hesitate again, my breath catching as memories flash, his shouts, the shove into the chair, the photos of him with other women that gutted me worse than any blade.
"Home's... complicated." I say finally, voice dropping low, hesitant as I test the waters.
"Living with my boyfriend, but it's rocky. He helps with rent. Scholarship doesn't cover much but lately, it's more stress than steady. Fights that escalate too quick. I crash with friends when it boils over."
Dr. Ashcroft nods, his expression unchanging, that unreadable composure holding like a shield, but his eyes soften just enough to make me wonder if he's seeing the cracks I'm trying to plaster over.