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Now it’s quiet.

The hallway’s a mess.Blood on the walls.Smell of copper in the air.My boots leave prints.

But that’s not the kind of cleanup job I’m concerned with at the moment.This place was always going to get dirty.

I move room to room.Fast, but thorough.

There’s a bedroom with military corners on the bed.No photos.No books.No name.

And then there’s the room at the end of the hall.

I don’t open it.

Not yet.

Because behind that door is her.I know it.

And I have other matters to attend to before I fix that one.

So I go for another door—not hers.

This one’s different.No lock.Slightly ajar.I push it open with the barrel of my gun.

She’s awake.

Lying in bed like she owns the place.Robe cinched too tight.Hair pulled back.Thin-framed glasses on the nightstand.A file folder beside her.Notes on trauma response.Conditioning.Re-education.

Her eyes don’t widen.She doesn’t seem surprised.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” she says.

I step inside.Close the door behind me.

“Her sister told me about you,” I say.

That gets a reaction.

“You’re the ‘therapist,’ right?”

She starts to sit up.Stops halfway.“I think you’re confused.”

“No,” I say, leveling the gun.“But you were.When you thought you’d never have to answer for what you’ve done.”

She glances at the gun.Then at me.“You don’t have to do this.”

“Sure I do.”

I fire once into her leg.Just below the knee.

She screams.Tries to scramble back, but there’s nowhere to go.

I drag the chair from the corner.Sit.Watch her bleed.

“You believe in learned helplessness, right?”

She whimpers, nods once, teeth clenched.

“Let’s test that.”