The door to Chase's office opened.
A woman in her late 20s stepped out—blonde, cardigan, sensible flats. She didn't look at anyone. Just kept her eyes on the floor, shoulders hunched, lips pressed into a thin line like she was holding something back. The same look I'd seen on every female patient who'd left his office today: troubled, distracted, almost haunted.
The men, though?
Different story.
A guy in his 40s had walked out twenty minutes earlier—broad shoulders, easy smile, practically humming as he passed reception. Another one, younger, maybe early 30s, had left whistling. Butterflies in their steps. Content. Satisfied.
Something was off.
"Mr. Marlowe."
Chase's voice carried from inside the office. I looked up. He was visible through the open doorway—seated behind his desk, glasses perched on his nose, pen in hand, looking every bit the calm, empathetic shrink.
