A Killer's Therapy Session

The office smelled like cedar and something expensive—floral, but restrained. Callan sat on a low couch that felt deliberately soft. It was meant to disarm him. Across from him, she sat in a leather chair, legs crossed, a pen resting on a legal pad she hadn’t touched.

Dr. Leclerc. Fifties, early sixties. It was impossible to tell. Silver hair pulled back into a clean pony. Cheekbones sharp enough to wound. She wore a bone-colored silk blouse, minimal jewelry, no wedding ring. Everything about her was composed, curated. And striking. Not in a way that asked for attention—but in the way of someone who once had it without trying, and still did.

She looked at him like she already knew the ending.

“This is confidential,” she said, voice smooth but firm. “What you share here stays here.”

Callan leaned back. “Unless it doesn’t.”

“You’re right to ask. There are exceptions. If I believe you’re an imminent danger to yourself or someone else, I’m obligated to act. That can include contacting the police.”

He tilted his head. “Imminent.”

“Yes. Present and serious. Not… historical.”

“So if the danger’s over, buried—”

“It stays with me. Unless we’re talking about child abuse or neglect. That’s the line. Always has been.”

Callan glanced toward the window. Outside, a warm breeze stirred the trees. A jogger passed by in headphones, unaware that someone was measuring the truths inside.

“What if the police come asking questions?”

Her gaze didn’t waver. “Without a court order? I say no. Your confidentiality stands unless you give me written consent.”

“And in Alberta?”

“Same rules. I’m allowed to break confidentiality only when the risk is real and immediate. Even then, I only share what’s necessary. No more.”

He watched her a moment longer. The stillness. The certainty. The kind of woman who didn’t blink first. He wondered what she’d been like twenty years ago. Then decided it didn’t matter—because time hadn’t taken much.

“So unless I’m planning something awful,” he said, “I’m not your burden.”

She didn’t look away. “You’re not a burden, Mr. McWard. You’re a man who came in from the dark.”

That one landed. He didn’t show it, but he felt it.

The wall clock ticked once. Her pen finally moved—just a small note. Nothing more.

Callan’s gaze drifted to the table beside the couch. Box of tissues. A children’s book.

He pointed at the tissues with his chin. “You get a lot of criers?”

Dr. Leclerc followed his glance, then looked back at him. The corners of her mouth lifted—not quite a smile. More acknowledgment than amusement.

“Enough,” she said. “Some cry. Some shake. Some simply sit in silence and leave ten minutes early.”

Callan nodded, slow. “And the book?”

“Part of the job. Not everyone I see is six foot two and armored like a vault.”

He didn’t answer, but a flicker in his eyes gave something away.

She uncrossed her legs, recrossed them the other way. Elegant. Unhurried. He clocked the movement. Filed it with the rest.

“You think it makes you weak—coming here. Talking.”

Callan shrugged. “Don’t know if I’d say that.”

“But you think it.”

He looked at her then. “No offense, but you’re not exactly who I pictured when they said shrink.”

“Let me guess. Cardigan. Half-moon glasses. Hand-wringing concern.”

“Something like that.”

She leaned forward slightly, elbows on the armrests. “Well. I’m not here to mother you. And I don’t plan on fixing anything that doesn’t want fixing.”

Silence stretched.

Callan finally said, “That thing you said earlier. About coming in from the cold.”

“Yes?”

“You’re not the first person to say it.”

She watched him. “Do you think it’s time you listened?”

He didn’t reply.

Her pen moved again. Two words. Maybe one.

Then nothing but the hum of the air conditioning and the sound of their breathing.

He thought of Providence Lake. It had been a mistake, in the end. He’d saved Isabelle from the cult, but not whole. Now she barely slept. Startled at noises no one else heard. Needed help Callan couldn’t give.

He’d looked into doctors—real ones. Trauma specialists. The best in Canada. But she wouldn’t go. Only if he did too. That was the condition.

He’d found Dr. Leclerc off a Google review. One session, he told himself. Enough to hold up his end, so Isabelle would finally go to hers.

His thoughts drifted, then broke.

Dr. Leclerc’s voice brought him back, gentle but direct.

“Is there anything you want to talk about? Just talk. I have no agenda here.”

Callan studied her for a beat. Then: “Actually… I do have a question.”

She nodded. “It’s your dime, Mr. McWard. Ask away.”

“Callan,” he said.

A pause. Then: “Okay, Callan. I’m still Dr. Leclerc.”

That earned a smile. She was sharp. Cautious. He’d have to stay on his toes.

He leaned forward. “What’s it supposed to feel like—caring about someone?”

Her face didn’t change right away. But when it did, it was subtle—a flicker of concern behind the eyes. And that, somehow, disappointed him.

“I need you to elaborate, Callan.”

He rubbed his jaw, the rough drag of a three-day beard anchoring him. A habit. A stall.

“I care about my stepsister,” he said. “I know I do. But it’s never felt… natural. Not warm. More like a responsibility I never asked for but can’t walk away from.”

She didn’t speak. She waited.

He exhaled. “I pulled her out of something bad. Worse than I understood going in. Now she leans on me like I’m some kind of tether, and part of me wants to be that. The other part…”

He trailed off.

“The other part?” she asked.

Callan looked toward the window, where reflection and outside blurred together.

“The other part wants to vanish.”

“Then why don’t you do just that, Callan?”

She said his name again—third time in under a minute. It was getting under his skin, though he couldn’t say why.

He swallowed. Memory ambushed him.

The last hours at Providence Lake. Isabelle covered in blood. Larry Bouchard on the floor, gurgling around a letter opener jammed in his throat—driven so hard she’d snapped the tip off.

Callan kept his control the way others breathed. Reflex. Routine.

“As I said in my original question,” he said, voice flat, “I feel like I need to take care of her.”

Dr. Leclerc looked up at the ceiling like the answer might be floating above them. Then back at him.

“You didn’t say that, Callan.”

“I did.”

Her mouth curled—halfway to a grin. He didn’t like it.

“No,” she said. “You said you felt responsible.”

Fuck. She’d painted him into a corner. And she knew it.

She let the silence hang before continuing. “Responsibility is something we carry. A weight. Obligation. It doesn’t have to come from care—it often doesn’t.”

His jaw tightened.

“But a need,” she said, “a need is different. It doesn’t wait for permission or explanation. It’s not logic. It’s instinct. You don’t choose it. You feel it.”

She leaned back. Measured him.

“So let me ask again. Do you need to take care of her? Or do you just believe no one else will?”

He looked away. His pulse didn’t change, but something shifted in his chest—a faint, unwelcome pressure.

“I don’t let my people down,” he said.

“That’s not the same thing as love.”

Callan gave a dry laugh that didn’t reach his eyes. “You’re not exactly making a case for staying.”

“I’m not trying to,” she said. “I’m asking which part of you is in the room right now—the man who wants to help her… or the man afraid of what happens if he doesn’t.”

He didn’t answer. But his fingers curled once against the seam of his pants. Then relaxed.

Her pen hovered. Then moved again. Another note. No rush.

“Are we out of time?” he asked—not really a question.

“You can leave anytime, Callan. But you’ve still got forty-three minutes.”

He stood.

Then sat.

“I want to help Isabelle,” he said.

What he didn’t say—what he couldn’t—is that he already had. And in doing so, he’d crossed a line he couldn’t uncross. Providence Lake hadn’t changed only her. It had changed him. And it was never going to let him forget it.

Her smile this time was genuine—or close enough to pass.

“Good,” she said.

She nodded and started writing.

He watched her. When she finished writing, she underlined something hard enough to tear the paper.

She held his gaze for a beat, pen poised again but still.

“Can I ask you something a little different?”

Callan tilted his head. “Haven’t you been?”

She ignored the barb. “When you were younger—say, before eighteen—did you ever find yourself in fights? Trouble with authority? Suspensions? Arrests?”

He studied her face. “Why?”

“Context,” she said. “Patterns.”

He gave a small shrug. “A few. Nothing that stuck.”

She nodded, as if she’d expected that. “How do you typically react when someone you care about gets hurt—whether it’s emotionally or physically?”

His eyes narrowed. “It depends.”

“On?”

“Many things. I don’t generalize.”

“Mm.” She glanced at her notes. “Moving on. What about guilt? Do you experience it easily? Or… is it something that comes later? If at all?”

That one hung in the air.

“I’m not accusing,” she added, gently. “Just observing. You speak clearly, but with distance.”

She watched him a moment longer, then nodded and wrote something else.

After a beat, her voice came again—even, but softer.

“Do you ever feel guilt, Callan?”

He didn’t flinch. “About?”

“Anything.”

He looked at her. Not defensive. Not surprised. Just still.

“I’ve felt guilt,” he said finally. “Sure.”

“When was the last time?”

He didn’t answer right away. Tapped his fingers once, twice, against the cushion. Then stopped.

“I don’t catalog it.”

She nodded like that was fair. Made another note.

“And what about fear? Do you experience it the same way others do?”

Callan gave a dry smile. “You’d have to ask someone else how they experience it.”

“Fair,” she said again. “What about connection? When was the last time you felt truly close to someone?”

He didn’t like that one. Not because it stung—because it felt loaded. Like a pressure plate.

“You think I’m detached.”

“I think you’re controlled,” she said. “There’s a difference.”

She let it sit. Then added, almost gently:

“Have you ever hurt someone and not regretted it?”

Callan met her eyes. Long pause.

“I don’t hurt people.”

She didn’t blink. Just wrote more notes.

He smiled again—faint, unreadable.

“You’re writing a lot. Anything interesting?”

She didn’t look up. “Always.”

She finished the note, tapped the pen once against the pad, then looked up again.

“Hypothetical,” she said. “Let’s say someone close to you—someone you care about—is being hurt. Not just threatened. Actively hurt.”

Callan didn’t blink.

She continued, voice calm. “You have the power to stop it. But the only way is to use force. Serious force. And there’s no guarantee anyone will thank you for it afterward. In fact, it could destroy your relationship.”

He sat with that. One beat. Two.

“And the system?” he asked. “Law? Police?”

“Too late,” she said. “By the time they arrive, it’s over.”

Callan leaned back slightly, arms still on his thighs. He wasn’t defensive. Just… honest.

“Then I stop it,” he said. “Quick. Clean. As hard as it takes.”

“No hesitation?”

He shook his head. “Hesitation gets people killed.”

She studied him. “Even if they never speak to you again?”

“If they’re alive to make that choice,” he said, “that’s a win.”

She didn’t write. Just sat there with it.

Then: “And if the person doing the hurting wasn’t a stranger?”

He looked at her. For once, his voice lost its edge.

“Doesn’t matter.”

She bit the end of her pen.

“Okay. Let’s change one variable.”

Callan’s eyes tracked her. Waiting.

“What if the one doing the hurting wasn’t in character? What if it was a one-time thing—a mistake?”

He didn’t answer right away. His expression didn’t shift. But something behind it did—like a blade turning in shadow.

“A mistake?” he said, voice flat.

“Yes. An outburst. Regrettable. But not repeated. Not deliberate.”

He studied her for a moment. Then leaned forward just slightly.

“You’re asking a very general question,” he said. “I should take a step back. Add some context.”

She gestured loosely with her pen, like a DJ cueing up the next track. “By all means.”

“The punishment has to fit the crime.”

She started writing again.

“There’s a difference between a little pain compliance to neutralize a threat… and what you’re hinting at.”

She raised her head then. Met his eyes.

“You’re ex-law enforcement?”

“Military.”

“Ah.”

A pause. She set the pen down.

“So you were trained to hurt people… and feel nothing about it in the moment.”

He didn’t answer.

She tilted her head. “How do you turn that off?”

That one landed. Not loud. Not cruel. But surgical.

Callan’s face didn’t move. But something behind his eyes did.

“You think I haven’t?” he asked.

“I think some people don’t know the switch was never installed.”

He thought about that. Then let out a laugh.

“I installed the switch myself.”

She tilted her head and asked, “Through discipline?”

He hummed to affirm.

He crossed his arms and said, “I have a question.”

“You have twenty minutes, Callan.”

“Is violence nature, or nurture?”

She smiled. Wide. Like she’d been waiting for that one.

She didn’t look at her notes. Didn’t move the pen. Just studied him.

Then: “You know what I find more interesting than that question?”

He didn’t respond.

She leaned back, uncrossed her legs, then crossed them the other way. Slow. Measured.

“It’s how often men like you ask it after the fact. After the training, after the damage, after the control becomes second nature. Like the answer would change anything.”

Callan’s jaw flexed. Just slightly.

She smiled again—smaller this time. Almost kind.

“I’m not here to forgive the fire, Callan. Or trace its spark. I’m here to see what you do with the burn.”

Then she picked up her pen and wrote nothing at all.

Callan sat with her words, then let out a low laugh. Not mocking—more like recognition. Something tired behind it.

“You’re good,” he said. “You dodge better than most people shoot.”

She didn’t respond. Just watched him. Pen still.

A pause.

Then Callan said, “You want to get a drink?”

That finally drew a reaction. Her eyebrows lifted, almost imperceptibly.

“Will you come back,” she asked, “as a patient?”

“No.”

She considered that.

Then set the pen down.

“In that case,” she said, “I’ll have gin. One rock.”

Callan stood. Straightened his jacket. Gave her a look—half grin, half something unreadable.

“Good choice,” he said.

She didn’t smile, not quite. But her eyes followed him to the door.

“Callan,” she said, just before he opened it.

He looked back.

“There’s a place on Jasper,” she said. “Clementine.”

“I know it.”

“See you at 8.”

He nodded once.

Then left.