The Savior’s Trap

Chapter Thirty-Seven – Shared Scars

Steam curled above the cups, tracing faint spirals in the lamplight. The kitchen smelled of roasted beans and polished wood, the kind of scent that wrapped around silence rather than breaking it. Elena sat across from Norman, her hands folded around the porcelain like she was drawing warmth from it. He had settled easily into the chair opposite, one arm draped over the backrest, his gaze steady without being intrusive.

“So,” she began, her voice low, “what really brought you to my door, Detective Drake? I doubt it was just neighborhood patrol.”

His mouth curved in a way that suggested humor but didn’t quite reach his eyes. “The same case I’ve been on. The suicides. Or what everyone insists were suicides.” He tapped his finger lightly against his cup. “Three women. Three therapists. All too neat, if you ask me.”

Her stomach tightened. She fought to keep her face composed, to take another sip before answering. “And you came to me because…?”

“I wanted to know if you’ve noticed anything strange,” Norman said simply. His tone wasn’t dramatic, only factual. “People watching you. Notes out of place. New patients who don’t quite fit.”

Elena lowered her gaze to the coffee. Strange? The word echoed. She thought of the gift box on her doorstep, the pink vibrator wrapped in ribbon. She thought of Vincent’s eyes glinting as he pressed too close in the club, of his voice hot at her ear. Strange had become her shadow. But she saw the clean lines of Norman’s shirt, the strong wrist resting on the table—no wedding band—and the calm way he watched her. He was the kind of man women wanted to trust. And if she spoke the truth, if she laid out her confusion, her shame, he might walk away without looking back.

So she smiled, careful. “No. Nothing unusual. Just work, students, and friends trying to drag me to yoga.”

His eyes narrowed, but he didn’t press. He stirred his coffee, the spoon clinking gently. “All right. But keep your eyes open. Whoever set the last stage was thorough.”

A few minutes passed in easier talk—cases in general, the weight of grief on families, the way society preferred tidy endings. Norman spoke of evidence that vanished under the word suicide, of paperwork that closed too many doors. Elena listened, hearing not just the words but the rhythm of someone who had seen too much.

She set her cup down. “Causes,” she murmured. “There are always so many. People think therapists are immune, but we’re not. If anything, we’re cracked open more often. We see too much. We carry it.”

Norman’s gaze sharpened. “Do you carry causes yourself?”

Her breath caught. For a moment she thought to deflect, to joke. But his tone was too level, too human. She sighed, shoulders lowering. “I lived years pretending not to see my husband’s affairs. I told myself it was for Kevin, for the house, for appearances. Every time I swallowed the humiliation, it cut deeper. When Richard finally filed for divorce, it wasn’t just the marriage ending—it was every secret, every rag of dirty laundry thrown into the street. Everyone knew. Everyone looked.”

The words tumbled out heavier than she’d expected. For once she didn’t sound like a professional summarizing a case. She sounded like a woman confessing something she had never put into words.

Norman didn’t speak right away. He nodded slowly, eyes fixed on her in a way that didn’t feel prying. “Mine was money,” he said finally. “She wanted more than I could give. More than the job would ever give. Lawyers made sure it was quick. Clean. Two small kids. They adjusted. Everyone adjusted. Before long, I was just ‘Dad who isn’t home anymore.’ That’s the story they learned to tell.”

Something in his calmness reached her. Divorce was a wound most people hid under excuses. Here was a man showing his scar without apology. Elena felt the air shift in the kitchen. For a moment it was just two people, stripped of titles and roles, sitting across from each other with losses on the table.

She leaned back, folding her arms loosely. “So we’re both familiar with endings.”

“And with carrying more than people think we can,” he said. His voice was softer now, not detective to witness, but man to woman.

Elena’s heart ticked faster, a pulse she didn’t want to name. She had never let herself consider Norman in that way—not openly. But now her eyes traced the way the light caught in his hair, the steady lines at the corners of his mouth. He wasn’t wearing a ring. She wondered who, if anyone, waited for him at night.

He set his cup down with deliberate care. “What about your group?” he asked after a pause. “Anyone stand out? Particularly… interesting?”

Her chest tightened again. Vincent’s smirk flashed in her memory, Chloe’s nervous laughter, the way the girls leaned toward him as though orbiting. She could almost hear his voice teasing her to stop him if she dared.

But instinct snapped her spine straight. Professionalism, duty, self-preservation—all rose at once. “Detective,” she said with a faint smile, “without a warrant I don’t discuss patients. You know that.”

The answer came out lighter than she felt. Behind her words was the truth she would not hand him yet—that one of her patients had already found the cracks in her walls.

Norman held her gaze, unreadable. Then he inclined his head, as though acknowledging a sparring point. “Fair enough. I had to try.”

Silence stretched again, this time not uncomfortable. She realized she was gripping her cup too tightly, fingers whitening. She eased them one by one, placing the porcelain gently on the table.

Norman rose, moving with the quiet confidence of someone who never left mess behind. “Thank you for the coffee,” he said. “And for the honesty you did share.”

Elena stood as well. The kitchen light threw a glow across his shoulders, outlining him like a figure caught between dusk and day. “You’ll come back, won’t you?” The words slipped out before she could measure them.

His eyes softened, though his mouth didn’t smile. “If I need to,” he said. “Or if you do.”

He tipped his head in a brief nod and left, the door closing behind him with the gentleness of someone who knew loud exits too well.

Elena stood in the silence, staring at the two cups cooling on the table. Her reflection in the window showed a woman with her shoulders straight, but her eyes betrayed the storm inside. She lifted her hand to the glass, fingertips brushing her own outline, and whispered to herself: You can’t fall for safety. Not now.

But her heart didn’t believe her lips.