Page 10 of Her Final Hours (High Peaks Murder, Mystery and Crime Thrillers #3)

I t was to be the first of many therapist appointments, arranged by Savannah specifically for law enforcement and first responders.

She felt it was required in light of all he’d been through with the loss of his brother and ex-wife.

He’d referred people to them many a time in the past, but using one himself?

That was a no-no. It wasn’t that he couldn’t see the benefit; it was just that opening up to a stranger and airing his laundry felt cold.

So, he’d canceled the appointment, not expecting to hear back.

He assumed the therapist would try to reschedule but would back off after a few missed appointments or unanswered voicemails.

Nope.

Not this one.

Persistence was her strong point. It was almost like she was used to having cops change their minds.

Instead, she just kept leaving messages on his cell.

“Mr. Sutherland, you appear to have missed another appointment. I have you booked in for another.” That’s when he knew Savannah was calling the shots. She was the only one with his schedule.

A bitter wind howled through the Adirondacks, carrying a flurry of snowflakes that danced in the air before gently settling on the ground.

The sky beyond his windshield was a gloomy gray, a melancholy color, as Noah pulled the Bronco into the gravel driveway of the therapist’s office.

The waterfront property stood proudly, facing the tranquil Lake Flower in Saranac Lake.

Noah let the Bronco idle as he second-guessed his decision to show up.

He came up with every excuse in his mind: he didn’t need it, it wasn’t essential, he was too busy with the new case to deal with this.

Only the continual voicemails from the therapist made him decide it was better to get in and get it out of the way.

Noah’s gaze lingered on the house, a dramatic two-story structure with a charming New England style. Its exterior boasted a blend of white clapboard siding and dark shingles that contrasted against the wintry landscape.

It was clear she made a good living as the home must have been worth a few million.

Through narrowed eyes, he studied the place, hoping to glean something from it, a choice, a decision, anything that would give him insight into who he was about to see.

The investigator in him didn’t like the feeling of being led.

He was used to making decisive choices, not giving anyone the impression that he couldn’t handle what was before him — that included his life.

The house exuded an air of quiet serenity as if it held the answers to all of life’s troubles within its walls.

He killed the engine but remained there unmoving.

Hesitation gnawed at his resolve as he glanced at the side door, where a small sign instructed him to proceed inside.

With apprehension and curiosity, Noah got out and felt the cold weather.

He took a deep breath, contemplating whether he should go through with the appointment or flee back to the sanctuary of his home.

He groaned, pushed open the door, and stepped into the warmth of the house. A hallway stretched before him, lit by soft, inviting lights that cast a golden glow on the polished redwood floor.

Following instructions posted on the wall, he turned into a cozy study.

Morning sunlight filtered through the sheer curtains, gently illuminating the room.

The study was adorned with bookshelves full of vintage-style leather-bound books.

Each one emanated an aura of wisdom and understanding or attempted to give the impression that she read more than she did.

There was no desk, just several leather armchairs positioned against the wall and a long modern-style sofa.

Noah’s gaze darted around the room, absorbing the details that seemed to paint a picture of the therapist’s life.

Family photographs adorned the walls, capturing moments frozen in time.

Certificates and diplomas hung proudly behind glass, testaments to her expertise and dedication.

He stood before them, scanning, trying to see what value her education could bring to his life.

He was being critical, and he hadn’t even met her yet.

Relax, he told himself as he turned and settled into one of the plush armchairs. The study exuded a sense of calm, a feeling of sanctuary from the chaotic world outside.

Noah glanced at a grandfather clock in the corner of the room.

He’d arrived a few minutes early, but the therapist wasn’t there.

He figured she would be there to greet him, or would she enter only when the clock ticked over to nine?

Doubt crept into his mind, whispering that he could get up and slip away unnoticed. She’s not here. She won’t even know.

He got up, just about to give in to the temptation to leave, when a soft voice broke through the silence. “You must be Noah Sutherland,” the woman said, entering the study. “Dr. Olivia Newbury.”

She extended a hand.

Startled, Noah’s heart skipped a beat as he shook it. “Uh, yeah,” he stammered, his voice betraying his nervousness. “I… I left my wallet in my vehicle. I’ll go get it.”

Dr. Newbury raised an eyebrow, a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips.

“No need,” she said calmly, her voice carrying a gentle authority.

With a hand wave, she gestured toward the chair he had vacated and stood in the doorway, effectively blocking his path to the exit.

“Please, have a seat. I’m glad you could make it. ”

Reluctantly, Noah took his seat, his gaze drawn to the woman before him.

Dr. Newbury was attractive, standing around 5 feet 8 inches tall.

Her athletic build hinted at her strength and resilience.

Her blonde hair was in an elegant bun, with a few loose strands framing her face.

Behind a pair of stylish glasses, her eyes sparkled with a warmth that instantly put him at ease.

That day she wore professional yet approachable attire — a classy navy blazer over a crisp white blouse, completed by tailored slacks. Her air of confidence was tempered by a kind smile as if she had a genuine interest in understanding and helping.

She took her place across from him with a calm grace, the leather chair creaking softly under her weight.

Her presence filled the room, commanding attention while offering solace.

As Noah settled back into his seat, he couldn’t help but feel a glimmer of hope, a flicker of possibility that she might deliver the guidance he needed.

A stranger was a stranger, after all. She didn’t know him.

“How’s the weather outside? ”

“Getting worse.”

“Yes, they have forecasted a storm. Usually, that’s the way. One last hurrah before we enter spring.” She glanced out a window over her shoulder. He saw it for what it was. Small talk. An icebreaker. A segue into her probing. “We’re supposed to get up to twenty inches of snow.”

“I hope not.”

She looked back at him. “We had a difficult time setting this up.”

We? He thought. That was her way of saying that he had been dodging her.

“I’ve had my hands full.”

“Of course. The death of your brother and Lena, right?”

“That’s right.”

“And so, you…” she glanced at her paperwork as if she hadn’t done it. “Have two children, sixteen and fourteen. A girl and a boy.”

“Mia and Ethan.”

“They’re staying with you.”

He took a deep breath.

“Sorry. I’m jumping ahead.”

“That’s fine,” he murmured, his voice tinged with vulnerability. “To be honest, I’m not sure why I’m here. But, Savannah thought it was best.”

Dr. Newbury’s gaze softened, her eyes conveying empathy. She nodded.

“It’s okay not to feel fine. You do know that?”

He shrugged. “Of course. I don’t live in a bubble. Look, uh.... can we skip to the part where you tell me what I need to do, and I go do it?”

She chuckled. “That requires me to understand what you need to do, if anything.”

“Then why am I here? ”

“To talk. To get out what you feel in a safe place.”

Noah screwed up his face. “Please. Don’t take this wrong, but I could record my voice and play it back if I wanted to hear myself talk.

I mean, that’s what you do, mirror the way I’m sitting, mirror the way I speak, kind of like interrogation techniques that we’re trained in.

Lulling people into a false sense of security with a nice drink and warm muffin until we slap cuffs on them and tell them the party is over. ”

“Is that something you want to talk about?”

“Geesh. You’re doing it now.”

She closed her folder and set it down by her leg. “Noah. If you don’t want to be here — that’s perfectly fine. Often clients don’t. Most people who need to talk don’t think they do until they get a chance to. But, look, I’m getting paid either way. If you go or stay, it’s covered by the state.”

“So, I don’t need to be here?”

“Do you think you don’t need to be here?”

He groaned and ran a hand over his head.

She leaned forward. “There, see. I’m no longer mirroring the way you’re sitting.

How about we start from the beginning? Tell me about you.

Tell me about Lena. What happened? How have you been since?

What kind of challenges are you facing with your kids?

And if all that is too painful to talk about, tell me about what you’re working on.

Or we can sit in silence. I’m here to listen and, if needed, use words to offer guidance and support. ”

As Noah contemplated her words, a glimmer of doubt resurfaced within him. He wondered if this woman could truly comprehend the depth of his pain and if she held the answers he sought. But as he observed her calm and composed demeanor, a newfound sense of trust began to take root.

“Ready?” she asked.

He nodded.