The Psychologist's Deadly Second Chance

3: 3

"Mr. Henson, Lucia James has resigned."

The vice principal pushed my office door open.

"She turned in her report this morning. Says there's an emergency at home."

Every instinct told me it wasn't anywhere near that simple.

I called Lucia right away. No answer.

I drove straight to her building and got there just as she was walking out, dragging a suitcase behind her.

"Ms. James, why so sudden—"

She cut me off hard.

"I'm done."

"Is it because of Gwendolen?"

I held her eyes.

She bit down on her lip, looked at me once, said nothing, then turned and left.

There wasn't a single other female counselor left at the school.

That afternoon the principal came to me again.

"Mr. Henson, now that Lucia's gone, you're the only one who can clean up this mess—"

"Refer her out. Send her to the City Psychological Crisis Intervention Center."

I cut him off flat.

"I already asked! They're fully booked, three weeks minimum before they can take her!"

"Then we wait."

"And if something happens in those three weeks? Who takes the fall?"

"If something happens, there's an emergency protocol. But I don't see her. That's my line."

I wouldn't budge an inch.

The principal sighed and slammed the door on his way out.

On the third day, Gwendolen's aunt, Pauline Winfield, showed up.

A woman in her early forties, weathered face, rough skin, grime worked so deep into her nails it wouldn't wash out.

The moment she saw me she dropped, about to go down on her knees, and I caught her before she hit the floor.

"Mr. Henson, I'm begging you, please, save our Gwen!"

The woman cried until her voice broke.

"Ms. Winfield, the specialists in the city will have an opening any day now. They're more qualified for this—"

"She won't go!"

Pauline's eyes were rimmed red, and she smacked her own thigh in desperation.

"She says she only wants you."

"Mr. Henson, you're the expert, have a heart, please help her!"

I looked at her from a step away, and something went cold all the way through me.

"Ms. Winfield, why is she so set on me?"

Pauline shook her head, lost, tears spilling.

"That child keeps everything inside. She never tells me any of this—"

Her hands trembled as she dug a sheet of paper out of a patched pocket.

"Gwen pressed this on me this morning. Said she'd die before she let me not bring it to you—"

I took the paper and unfolded it.

The handwriting was extraordinarily neat, clean and delicate.

It read:

"Mr. Henson, I know you don't want to help me. That's all right. I don't blame you."

"If I'm going to keep living in this world, all I want is for you to be my light."

I folded the paper back up and handed it to Pauline without a flicker of expression.

"Tell her I'll follow up on the wait time at the city center."

Once I'd sent Pauline off, I locked myself in my office.

I ran that piece of paper through my mind again and again.

The paper had been folded too precisely.

Not a single correction in the handwriting.

She hadn't scribbled it off in a hurry.

A girl who smashes things and cuts herself in the counseling room, who stands on the rooftop ready to jump.

And this letter-writer who weighed out every word, who couldn't even fold the page without perfect care.

Were these two really the same person?

I thought of Lucia's face as she left.

I thought of those clean nails on the rooftop, painted the palest pink.

I thought of the way she looked toward the door with cold eyes on the footage, right before she shattered the glass.

Taken one at a time, every piece could be forced to fit under trauma response.

But put them together—

A vast, unknown dread was creeping over me, inch by inch.

But why did it have to be me?

I couldn't say what she was actually after.