THE THERAPIST’S SMILE
Dr. Elias Vance’s office was in a restored Victorian house on the edge of the historic district. The waiting room was soft and warm—beige walls, gentle lighting, a fountain that trickled in the corner. It was designed to calm. To soothe. To make you feel safe.
Maya felt anything but safe.
She had made an appointment under a false name. Margaret Hale, anxiety, recent divorce. She sat on the beige couch, her hands folded in her lap, watching the door.
Vance appeared exactly on time.
“Maggie?” He smiled. It was a kind smile. A practiced smile. The smile of someone who had spent decades learning exactly how to put people at ease.
Maya stood. “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”
“Of course. Come in.”
His office was behind the waiting room, a large space with tall windows and bookshelves filled with psychology texts. He sat in a leather chair, and Maya sat on a matching couch.
“So,” he said, leaning back. “What brings you here today?”
Maya had prepared a story. A divorce. Insomnia. A vague sense of dread. It was all true, technically—just not hers. She had borrowed the details from a friend, someone who had been in therapy for years.
But as she spoke, she watched him.
His eyes never left her face. His posture was open, relaxed. He nodded at the right moments. Made small sounds of empathy. He was good. Very good.
Then she mentioned the bridge.
“I’ve been having dreams,” she said. “About water. About falling.”
His smile didn’t change. But something in his eyes flickered.
“The Mercy Bridge?” he asked.
She hadn’t named it.
“I’m sorry?”
“You mentioned the bridge. We only have one bridge in Barrow Falls that people dream about.” He leaned forward. “The Mercy Bridge has been in the news a lot lately. It’s not surprising that anxious people dream about it.”
He was covering. Smoothly. Easily.
But Maya had seen the flicker.
“I guess that makes sense,” she said.
“How long have you been having these dreams?”
“A few weeks.”
“Have you ever thought about acting on them?”
Maya’s heart raced. “No. Never.”
He nodded. “Good. That’s good. If you ever do—if the thoughts become more than thoughts—I want you to call me. Anytime. Day or night.”
He handed her a card.
Dr. Elias Vance. Trauma specialist. And beneath his name, a personal cell number.
Maya took it.
“Thank you, Dr. Vance.”
“Maggie. Please. Call me Elias.”
She left.
In her car, she sat for a long time, staring at the card.
She had come here looking for evidence. Instead, she had found something else.
A man who was too smooth. Too prepared. Too interested in bridge dreams.
She called her source.
“Run a background check on Elias Vance. Everything. Education. Training. Malpractice claims. Complaints to the licensing board.”
“I told you, I can’t—”
“You can. And you will. Because three women are dead. And I think he knows why.”
She hung up.
She drove home.