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I lightly pat my chest to get his attention. “Deep breaths, okay? Can you breathe with me

?” He’s frowning, but at last he does what I’m saying, inhaling and exhaling. “Good job. Now let’s think this through. Why would Mrs. Green want to steal yard ornaments?”

“She’s implanting them with tracking devices to create a network of government surveillance all over town.”

Nodding slowly, I continue breathing. “Or…?”

“Or she’s a Russian spy gathering intel for the Soviets like in that show The Americans.”

My lips tighten, but I do not react. I keep my voice steady. “How old is Mrs. Green?”

“Eighty-five, but don’t be fooled. Russian intelligence agents are powerful until the day of their deaths. Did you see the movie Red Sparrow?”

“I did not.” My voice is smooth. “Is Mrs. Green a creative person?”

“She has the most creative lawn of anyone in our neighborhood. She leaves big patches of uncut grass after she mows, and the wildflowers in her beds are out of control.”

“Remember the last time you talked to Mrs. Green about a problem?” He nods, and I continue. “It worked out very well, and you learned she’s really a nice neighbor.”

“So is Kerri Russell.”

I hear the outer door opening and closing, and I know our time is up. “For this next week, I’d like you to take a chance and ask Mrs. Green about the yard ornaments. She might have a very simple and reasonable explanation.”

He stands and goes to the door, stopping just as he reaches it. “Will you come and visit me in the hospital?”

I almost forget myself and ask why. “Do you remember the crisis phone numbers?” He nods, and I smile. “Use them in case of an emergency. We’ll talk about this more at your next appointment.”

His shoulders relax and he gives me a weak smile. “You really are kind, Miss Harris. I hope I haven’t endangered your life.”

“Remember your assignment. Try talking to Mrs. Green this week. Ask her about the yard ornaments.”

“I’ll try.”

The door closes behind him, and I shake my head, smiling quietly to myself as I make a note of his progress and his assignment. He really is getting better at this, getting closer to confronting these fears. I lay the Mont Blanc pen on my notepad. It’s the one gift my father gave me when I graduated with honors, with a concurrent master’s degree, and became a licensed therapist.

My phone lies silent on the mahogany wood, and I pick it up, studying the face, allowing it to pull me back to my own emotional wound.

Tapping on the screen, I go to where his number is saved and pull it up in my messenger app. The last text I ever sent him waits, unanswered. I’d sent it a month after the funeral, when my dad sank farther into alcoholism, and I wasn’t sure I could keep going. I wasn’t sure I could put one foot in front of the other for one more day.

I can’t do this. I need you here. Please come home.

The note it was delivered sits below it.

No reply.

He ghosted me just as sure as he became a ghost himself.

The only way I knew he was alive was through the list of soldiers who escaped the ambush. Not because he came back and told me himself in person what happened. Not because he was here for Danny’s funeral.

“Ready?” Ruby’s voice jumps me out of my unexpected trip down memory lane. She taps on the door before sticking her head inside. “Come on—I’ve got to hurry. I’ve got a date tonight.”

“On a Wednesday? More Hookup4Luv?”

“Judgment from the girl who never dates? Yeah, I’m ashamed.” Sarcasm drips from her tone as she waits for me to pack my laptop and notepad. “How was Hunter? Still convinced Mrs. Green is the real Deep Throat?”

“Russian spy.” I pause to lock my door before walking with her down the short hall of the clinic. “He talked about Martha Mitchell syndrome today.”

“I don’t have my DSM…”