Page 4 of Deadly Hope
And that could mess with his plan.
In and out in one session. All he needed was the woman’s endorsement that he didn’t need serious treatment. That would get Ronan and the rest of the Knight Tactical group off his back. One session. In. Out.
All he had to do was prove he could still function. Still contribute.
Still belong.
Without a shrink.
“Time hack,” Ronan announced. “Three, two, one ... execute!”
Axel moved into position, letting his body take over while his mind cataloged the course. He could do this. One evolution at a time. One breath at a time.
Just like therapy would be. If he could make it through the door.
2
Olivia’s officecaught the mid-day sun, throwing golden light across her degrees and certifications. Through the north-facing window, Knight Tactical’s compound sprawled like its own miniature city, complete with training facilities that probably cost more than her entire building.
The ski slopes of Hope Mountain stood sentinel to the south, already dusted with early snow. Photos from prized climbs, both granite routes and ice falls she’d conquered since moving to Hope Landing three years ago hung beside her diplomas—a reminder that life existed beyond these walls, though she saw less and less of it lately.
She walked her client—a veteran living in his car—to the back door of her office, the exit that allowed clients to leave without having to meet incoming clients in the waiting room. Rick’s session had been tough. He’d finally opened up about Fallujah, and she’d recognized the thousand-yard stare that meant they were getting somewhere. Progress, even if it felt glacially slow.
“Rick, I mean it. Call me anytime this week. The shelter has space opening up Friday.” She kept her voice steady,professional, though her heart ached at the way his shoulders curved inward against the world. “And think about what we discussed—the VA job training program. You’ve got skills they need.”
“Thanks, Doc.” He shuffled out, but she caught the slight straightening of his spine. Small victories.
Olivia watched him go, one hand absently touching the carved wooden box on her shelf—the last birthday gift from James before the damage done in Afghanistan claimed him.
Her brother would have understood Rick. Would have known exactly what to say to the former Marine. Would have noticed the pattern of disturbances long before she had.
Her office reflected that understanding. No motivational posters with soaring eagles. Instead, unit coins displayed in a simple case. A topographical map of the Hindu Kush. A worn copy ofOn Combatbeside clinical textbooks. The room said: I may not have served, but I speak your language.
Her stomach growled. The sad turkey sandwich in her desk drawer could wait. Her phone buzzed—a text from her pal, Eileen:
Guessing girls’ night is a no-go again? Third time this month …
Olivia pushed her wild red curls back from her face, guilt twisting in her gut. Eileen had been trying to get her out more, refusing to let her use work as an excuse to become a hermit. But how could she explain that leaving the office after hours made her jumpy lately? That she’d started checking her car’s back seat three times before getting in, ever since finding the driver’s seat adjusted last week? And the tiny bit of evidence in her condo?
Before she could respond, her phone lit up. Anne Kennedy, whose son had returned from his third tour with severe PTSD. Olivia’s stomach clenched. She knew only too well how the man’s story could end. Peter was one of herfew remaining military clients who hadn’t mysteriously transferred to Knight Tactical’s “in-house” counseling program.
“Dr. Kane! Peter’s having another episode?—”
“Anne.” Olivia’s voice shifted instantly to the calm, steady tone that had guided countless ER patients through their worst moments. “I need you to take a deep breath and tell me exactly what you’re seeing. Is Peter oriented to where he is?”
Twenty minutes of careful questions and measured responses later, crisis averted, Olivia rolled her shoulders. Her CrossFit-toned frame protested the hours of desk work. The sandwich looked even less appetizing now, pale and squashed in its Ziploc bag. She tossed it back in the drawer, remembering too many similar meals grabbed between crises in the ER. The adrenaline had felt different then—immediate, actionable. Now her battles were longer, slower, fought in quiet rooms with words instead of sirens.
And lately, fought with shadows that moved through her office after hours, rearranging her life piece by subtle piece.
“Liv?” Marisol Delgado appeared in her doorway, somehow managing to look elegant despite juggling her purse, phone, and car keys. “I’m heading out—Sophia’s orthodontist appointment, remember? Stuart and Janelle are both out until Monday ...”
“Go, go! Kiss that girl for me.” Olivia stretched her tall frame, envying Marisol’s ability to maintain normal routines. Her own life had become a series of security checks and second-guesses.
“You should eat something,” Marisol said, mother-hen mode activated. “You’ve been seeing clients since eight.” She paused, something flickering in her expression. “And that car is back.”
Olivia’s head snapped up. “What car?”
“The white SUV. The one I mentioned last week? It’s across the street again.”
