Chapter 2
I grabbed my phone with shaking hands. Emma Wilson. I knew where I'd seen her before.
It was about six months ago. Marcus had been rushed to the ER with what the paramedics called a severe panic attack. I'd gotten the call at my office and dropped everything to meet him there.
The memory came flooding back now, crystal clear.
Marcus was sitting in the waiting area when I arrived, looking pale and rattled. His hands wouldn't stop shaking. It wasn't his worst episode, but seeing him like that always threw me back to those early days when his PTSD was at its peak.
"What happened?" I'd asked, sliding into the plastic chair beside him.
"I don't know." His voice was rough. "I was at the gym, and suddenly I couldn't breathe. Felt like I was back in Kandahar."
The triage nurse had called him back for evaluation. Standard procedure for panic attacks, just to rule out anything cardiac. I'd waited in that sterile hallway, scrolling through emails and trying not to worry.
When Marcus came back out, a young woman in a white coat approached us. Blonde ponytail, bright smile, probably early twenties.
"Mr. Rivera?" She'd extended her hand to Marcus. "Thank you so much for agreeing to let me observe today. This case study will be incredibly valuable for my thesis research."
I'd looked between them, confused. "What case study?"
Marcus had brushed her off with barely concealed irritation. "I told you to focus on your own work."
The girl's face fell. "But if I don't get enough clinical observation hours, I won't be able to complete my program requirements."
"Not my problem," Marcus had said, already standing to leave.
My colleague Jane had driven me to the hospital that day. As we walked to her car, she'd grabbed my arm.
"Did you notice something about that girl?"
"What about her?"
Jane had glanced back toward the hospital entrance. "She looks like you. I mean, like you did in your twenties."
I'd laughed it off at the time. Thought Jane was being dramatic. But I'd still found myself looking back over my shoulder at the young woman standing alone by the automatic doors.
That was Emma Wilson.
Marcus had stayed overnight for observation, standard protocol for his condition. The next evening, he'd come home with a bag from my favorite coffee shop downtown.
"Got you those Ethiopian beans you love," he'd said, kissing my cheek. "Waited in line for twenty minutes. Enjoy them while I shower."
At the time, I'd thought it was sweet. Now I wondered what else he'd been doing during those twenty minutes.
After Marcus disappeared into the bathroom, I found myself grabbing the spare car keys. Our building's parking garage was quiet at this hour, just the hum of fluorescent lights and the distant sound of traffic above.
His car looked spotless. Recently washed, not a speck of dust anywhere. The passenger seat was adjusted to my usual position, but that didn't mean much. Marcus was thorough about details like that.
I slipped into the driver's seat and pulled up the navigation history on his phone. He'd never bothered to clear it, probably never thought I'd look.
Yesterday's route jumped out immediately. Boston University Psychology Department. He'd been there for over six hours, from late afternoon until almost midnight. Today showed another trip to the same location, this time for two hours.
No medical emergency. No overnight observation. Just visits to BU's psych department.
My hands were trembling as I scrolled through the car's built-in navigation system. The route history painted a clear picture. After leaving the university yesterday, he'd driven to graduate housing complex about ten minutes away. The car had been parked there from 9 PM until 10 AM this morning.
I was about to close everything when my phone buzzed. A text from Tom, one of our mutual friends from the medical community.
"Where are you? You're already an hour late for the consultation."
The message wasn't for me. It was meant for Marcus. Tom must have grabbed the wrong contact.
My phone rang almost immediately.
"Sophia? Sorry, meant to text Marcus. Is he with you?"
"He's upstairs," I managed. "What consultation?"
"We had a case review scheduled for eight. This isn't like him to be late without calling." Tom paused. "Please don't tell me he was with that grad student again."
My stomach dropped. "What grad student?"
"Emma something. Look, I probably shouldn't say anything, but Marcus has been mentoring this BU student on her thesis. It started as a professional thing, but lately..." Tom's voice trailed off.
"Lately what?"
"I don't know, Sophia. He's been acting strange. Distracted. I thought maybe it was work stress, but now I'm wondering if there's something else going on."
I ended the call and sat in the dark parking garage, pieces clicking into place. The late nights. The phone calls. The sudden interest in "consulting work." The grad student who looked like a younger version of me.
When I finally made it back upstairs, Marcus was already in bed. He'd texted Tom some excuse about feeling unwell. Another lie to add to the growing pile.
I didn't sleep that night. Instead, I sat in the chair by our bedroom window, watching Marcus's sleeping form and thinking about how we'd gotten here.
I'd met him when he was twenty-seven, fresh out of the military and drowning in trauma he couldn't name. He'd come to my practice on his brother's recommendation, resistant to therapy but desperate enough to try.
It had taken months to break through his defenses. Months of careful work to help him process what he'd experienced overseas. Somewhere along the way, the professional boundaries had blurred. I'd fallen for my patient, and when his treatment ended, we'd started seeing each other outside my office.
"Age is just a number," he'd told me on our first real date. "You saved my life, Sophia. Nothing else matters."
Now, apparently, my age did matter. Enough for him to seek out someone nine years younger. Someone who looked like me but without the "staleness" of being thirty-six.
I watched the sun come up over Boston Harbor, my reflection ghostlike in the window glass. Somewhere across the city, Emma Wilson was probably waking up in her graduate housing, planning her next move with my husband.
The irony wasn't lost on me. I'd spent my career helping people heal from betrayal and trauma. Now I was on the other side of the equation, and all my professional training felt useless against the raw ache in my chest.
But I was still a psychologist. Still someone who understood human behavior and motivation. If Marcus thought he could manipulate me the way he had Emma, he was about to learn just how wrong he was.
I had work to do.