175 HIDDEN EYES

chapter 6

The coffee shop near the park was quiet for a weekday afternoon. Winifred sat across from Theo at a small table by the window. She wore a simple cream sweater and dark jeans. He had on a blue button-down with the sleeves rolled up. His black hair was slightly messy from the wind outside.

Theo smiled as he set her cup down. “You look tired. Long week?”

“Something like that,” she said.

He reached across the table and took her hand. His palm was warm and steady. He didn’t squeeze too hard. Just held on, thumb brushing once over her knuckles.

“You can tell me,” he said. “If you want.”

Winifred looked at their hands for a second. The contact felt safe. Easy. Different from everything else in her head.

“I have a new client,” she said finally. “Young. Very sharp. He doesn’t really do therapy. He debates. Tests. It’s… draining.”

Theo nodded. “The ones who turn the session around are the hardest. You start feeling like you’re the one being evaluated.”

“Exactly.” She gave a small breath of a laugh. “He’s smug about it too. Like he already knows how the conversation will go.”

Theo’s thumb moved again, slow and reassuring. “You don’t have to keep him if it’s crossing lines.”

“I know.” She didn’t pull her hand away. “But quitting feels like letting him win. And I don’t like that idea.”

Theo watched her face for a moment. “You’re allowed to protect your energy, Winifred. Even from clients who are good at getting under your skin.”

She met his eyes. The mild warmth there settled something in her chest. For a few minutes they talked about lighter things—his sister’s new dog, a book they had both read, the way the weather was starting to turn. When they stood to leave, Theo held her hand until they reached the door. He let go only when they stepped outside.

“Call me if the week gets heavier,” he said.

She nodded. “I will.”

The next session with Evan started like the others. He walked in wearing a black sweater and dark pants, hair in the same low bun. Winifred sat behind her desk in a white blouse and gray trousers, spine straight, notebook open.

He didn’t sit right away.

Instead he began to walk. Slow, quiet circles around the room while she stayed in her chair. The movement made the space feel smaller.

“You’re tense today,” he said.

“I’m fine.”

“No.” He passed behind her chair. “Your shoulders are higher. You’re holding the pen too tightly. Something’s different.”

She kept her eyes on the notebook. “Let’s focus on you.”

“We always do,” he said. “That’s the problem. You never let the questions come back.”

He stopped near the window, then started walking again. “Tell me something, Dr. Hale. When did you decide that distance was the same thing as strength?”

Her fingers stilled.

“That’s not relevant.”

“It is.” His voice stayed calm. “You built this room so people could put down their armor. But you never put yours down. Not even a little. Why?”

She didn’t answer.

He kept walking, slow and steady. “Foster care teaches people different lessons. Some learn to attach fast because they never know how long safety will last. Others learn the opposite. They learn that needing anyone is dangerous. Which one was it for you?”

Winifred’s jaw tightened. “We’re not talking about me.”

“We are now.” He came around to the front of the desk and stopped. “You flinch when people get too close. Not with your body. With your voice. With the way you change the subject. I’ve watched it happen three sessions in a row.”

“Stop.”

“Why? Because it’s accurate?” He tilted his head. “Or because you don’t like that I noticed?”

She forced a breath. “You don’t know anything about my life.”

“I know enough.” His gray eyes stayed on her face. “You keep everyone at a professional distance so you never have to find out if they’d stay. Control isn’t just my problem, is it?”

The words landed harder than she expected. She opened her mouth, then closed it again. For a moment there was nothing she could say that wouldn’t give him more.

Evan stepped closer to her chair. He leaned down until his mouth was near her ear, just above the pulse point in her neck. His voice dropped to a whisper.

“Winifred.”

She jerked back hard enough that the chair moved. Her heart slammed once against her ribs.

“You need to leave,” she said, voice tight. “Now.”

He straightened slowly. The smile that spread across his face was beautiful and dangerous at the same time. He looked down at her, eyes moving over every shift in her expression until they settled on what he wanted—confusion, uncertainty, the crack in her composure.

He stepped into her space once more. She stood up too fast and took a step back. Her calves hit the edge of the chair.

“You lost control,” he said quietly, “in a room you built to help people give up their need for power. Now you’re trapped in the same illusion you used to feed them. And you’re paying for it.”

The smile disappeared as cleanly as it had come. His face went neutral again.

“I’ll see you next session.”

He turned and left. The door clicked shut behind him.

Winifred stood still for several seconds. Then she walked to the side table on legs that didn’t feel entirely steady. She poured a glass of water and drank it in one go. The cold liquid hit her stomach hard. She stayed by the table, listening to her own heart race, trying to name the feeling in her chest.

She couldn’t.

For the first time in years, she wasn’t sure what she was standing on. Evan had tangled her thoughts so thoroughly that the usual clear lines were gone. She already dreaded the next session. The idea of reporting him crossed her mind—and left just as fast. Reporting him would look like surrender. The last thing she wanted was to give that smug child the satisfaction of winning.

So she would endure.

That evening she walked home the longer route, bag held close. Two blocks from her building the feeling returned—eyes on her back, steady and patient. She didn’t turn around this time. She only walked faster, keys already in her hand, the skin at the back of her neck tight with the knowledge that someone was still there, matching her pace in the dark.