The Savior’s Trap

Chapter Fifteen – An Unwelcome Visitor

Elena had stayed later than usual that afternoon, rearranging the chairs in the therapy room with more care than necessary. The circle mattered; it always mattered. If one chair angled too far inward, it could feel like interrogation. If one leaned back, it could feel like dismissal. She adjusted each seat until the lines matched the pattern in her mind, though the effort was more about calming her own restlessness than preparing for the group.

Her notebook lay open on the table, a pen resting across the margin where she had scribbled reminders: Set boundaries early. Encourage honesty. Reinforce confidentiality. Words she had repeated for years, yet tonight they looked like talismans scratched by someone desperate to keep the shadows at bay.

A knock sounded on the door. Not the hesitant tap of a patient, but a firm, deliberate rap—three beats, steady as a gavel. Elena stiffened. She wasn’t expecting anyone for another twenty minutes.

When she opened the door, the man standing there did not look like a patient. He was tall, shoulders squared beneath a plain suit, his tie slightly loosened as if he wore it only out of duty. His dark hair was cut close, his jaw shadowed with the kind of stubble that spoke of long nights and little sleep. His eyes, sharp and steady, carried the weight of someone accustomed to seeing the worst and not flinching.

“Doctor Chase?” His voice was low, firm, unhurried.

“Yes,” Elena answered cautiously.

He reached into his jacket and produced a worn leather wallet, flipping it open to reveal a badge. “Detective Norman Drake. May I come in?”

Elena stepped aside, her heart quickening despite herself. He entered with the controlled presence of a man who measured every movement, scanning the room in a single sweep: the circle of chairs, the notes on the table, the faint smell of disinfectant.

“I hope I’m not interrupting,” he said.

“You are,” Elena replied evenly, though not unkindly. “But interruptions happen. What can I do for you?”

He remained standing, his hands resting lightly on the back of an empty chair. “I’d like permission to sit in on some of your group sessions. Strictly as an observer.”

Her brows arched. “Do you have s****l compulsivity issues, Detective?”

For the first time, he hesitated. His mouth tightened, his gaze flicking briefly toward the floor before settling back on her. “No,” he admitted, clearing his throat. “This isn’t personal. It’s connected to an ongoing investigation.”

Elena crossed her arms, the faintest trace of amusement tugging at her lips. “Then you’ll understand why that request is impossible. Confidentiality is not a courtesy here—it’s survival. Patients won’t speak if they feel watched. And if they don’t speak, the group collapses.”

Norman nodded once, as though he had expected the answer. But he didn’t leave. Instead, he drew a thin folder from under his arm and laid it on the table. The manila cover was creased, the edges worn.

“Three women,” he said. “Three licensed psychologists. Each from a different town, all within fifty miles. Each ruled a suicide within the past month. All left detailed notes of apology. All recorded themselves in their final hours. Clean. Too clean.”

Elena felt a chill work its way up her spine. She had seen the headlines in passing, skimmed obituaries written with the same tired phrases—beloved counselor, dedicated professional, gone too soon. She had chosen not to linger, not to dwell. Now the files sat inches from her hand, heavy as stone.

“You think someone in my group could be responsible?” she asked quietly.

“I think patterns rarely stop at three,” Norman said. His gaze was steady, not accusatory but unyielding. “If someone—an unstable patient, a manipulator—pushed them, convinced them, staged their deaths, we need to know. I’m not ruling anything out. That’s why I wanted to be here.”

Elena sank slowly into a chair, her notebook slipping shut beneath her hand. “Most people believe therapists are unbreakable,” she said. “That we sit here absorbing everyone’s chaos and walk away untouched. But the truth is… inside any therapist burns contradictions we don’t always name. Old wounds. Doubts. A weight we carry in silence. Sometimes the silence grows too heavy.”

Norman studied her. His jaw tightened, but his voice was gentler when he asked, “Is it hard for you?”

The question pierced deeper than she expected. She opened her mouth to deflect, to say what she always said—I manage. But the words felt brittle, false. For the first time in months, maybe years, she simply nodded. “Yes. Harder than most people imagine.”

For a moment, the air between them felt heavy, almost intimate—not with attraction, but with a raw recognition she hadn’t asked for.

Then Elena drew a slow breath and straightened. “But you still can’t sit in. Confidentiality is the spine of these groups. Break it, and everything collapses. Whatever you’re investigating, you’ll have to find another way.”

Norman didn’t argue. He closed the folder, tucking it back under his arm, and reached into his pocket for a card. He slid it across the table, his fingers brushing the surface only long enough to leave it behind.

“If something happens,” he said, “if you notice anything out of place—call me.”

Elena picked up the card. Black print on white, his name stark and plain: Norman Drake, Detective, Major Crimes Division. The number was printed twice, once at the top, once at the bottom, as though he refused to allow excuses.

“I hope you find what you’re looking for, Detective,” she said, slipping the card into her notebook.

“I hope I don’t,” he answered, already turning toward the door.

When he left, the silence pressed heavier than before. The circle of chairs looked suddenly fragile, like a ritual she was struggling to keep intact against forces larger than the room. She told herself she had done the right thing—that she had protected her patients, her profession, the fragile trust that kept the sessions alive.

But as she gathered her notes and prepared for the group, Elena couldn’t shake the certainty that Norman Drake would return. And when he did, she wasn’t sure whether she would refuse him again—or if some part of her secretly wanted him to come back.