THE SAFE
The kitchen was dark and quiet.
Maya stood still, listening. The house hummed with the small sounds of a building settling — the creak of pipes, the whisper of the furnace, the distant tick of a clock.
She moved through the kitchen, into the hallway, past the living room, toward the stairs.
His home office was on the second floor, at the end of the hall. She knew this from Kaela’s description, from the journal, from the way her body seemed to know where to go.
The door was closed.
She opened it.
The office was smaller than his professional space, but more personal. Bookshelves lined the walls, filled not with psychology texts but with novels, biographies, books on philosophy. A desk sat in the corner, cluttered with papers. A laptop was closed on the desk, its screen dark.
And against the far wall, a safe.
It was old, heavy, bolted to the floor. The lock was a combination dial, not digital.
Maya knelt in front of it.
She had no idea what the combination was.
She tried the obvious ones — his birthday, his office number, the year he graduated.
Nothing.
She tried the names of the victims — Sarah, Elena, Clara, Kaela.
Nothing.
She sat back on her heels.
Think.
Vance was a man who collected secrets. He would use a combination he could remember, something significant, something that meant something to him.
She thought about the photographs in his office. The framed picture of the woman she didn’t recognize.
His mother? His wife?
She tried the woman’s name. She didn’t know it.
She tried the word “Mother.”
The lock clicked.
Maya’s heart stopped.
She turned the handle.
The safe opened.
Inside, rows of digital recorders. Small, black, each one labeled with a name and a date.
Sarah Chen. Elena Vasquez. Clara Bennett. Kaela Morgan. Sophie.
And dozens more.
Women she had never heard of. Women who might still be alive. Women who might already be dead.
Maya reached for the first recorder.
Behind her, a floorboard creaked.
She froze.
“You just couldn’t leave it alone, could you?”
Vance’s voice. Soft. Almost sad.
Maya turned.
He was standing in the doorway, wearing a bathrobe, his feet bare, his silver hair mussed from sleep. He looked smaller than he did in his office. More human.
But his eyes were the same. Cold. Watching.
“You knew I was coming.”
“I suspected. Kaela was the only one who knew about the back door. When she disappeared from the hotel, I assumed she would contact you.”
“Then why didn’t you stop me?”
“Because I wanted to see what you would do.” He stepped into the room. “What you would find. What you would take.”
Maya stood. The recorder was in her hand.
“These are confessions,” she said. “Your patients. You recorded them. You made them talk about the bridge. About falling. About wanting to die.”
“I made them talk about their deepest fears. That’s what therapists do.”
“You encouraged them to act on those fears.”
“I helped them confront their demons. What they did afterward was their choice.”
“Three of them are dead.”
“Three of them made a choice.”
Maya stepped closer. “The fourth is standing in my car. The fifth is me.”
Vance tilted his head. “Is that what you think? That you’re the next victim?”
“I know I am.”
“You’re not a victim, Maya. You’re a witness. There’s a difference.”
“Then let me leave. Let me take these recordings to the police. To the FBI. To the media.”
“And what would that accomplish?”
“Justice.”
Vance laughed. It was a soft sound. Almost kind.
“There’s no such thing as justice. There’s only power.” He stepped toward her. “I have it. You don’t.”
“Then why are you afraid?”
His smile flickered.
“I’m not afraid of you.”
“Yes, you are. You’ve been afraid since the moment I walked into your office. Because I see you. The real you. Not the therapist. Not the healer. The man who gets off on watching women dream about dying.”
Vance’s face went cold.
“You don’t know anything about me.”
“I know you killed them.”
“I helped them find peace.”
“Call it whatever you want. It’s murder.”
Vance was silent.
Then he reached into his bathrobe pocket.
Maya tensed.
But he pulled out a key.
“The front door. It’s locked. Take the key. Take your recorder. Leave. And never come back.”
“Or what?”
“Or I call the police and tell them you broke into my home. Stole my property. Threatened me.”
“They won’t believe you.”
“They’ll believe me. I’m beloved, remember? You’re the obsessed reporter who already got arrested once.”
Maya looked at the key.
She looked at the recorder in her hand.
She looked at the safe, still open, still full of secrets.
“You’re not going to stop,” she said. “Even if I leave. Even if I disappear. You’ll keep doing this. To other women. Other patients. Other victims.”
“That’s not your concern.”
“It is now.”
She walked toward the door.
“I’m taking the recorder. And I’m going to find the others. The women on those labels. The ones you haven’t killed yet.”
“Maya—”
“And if you try to stop me, I will destroy you. Not with a gun. Not with the police. With the truth.”
She walked past him.
He didn’t follow.
But she felt his eyes on her back.
Cold. Watching.
Hungry.