The business card had taken me three hours to make.
Dr. Sarah Mitchell, Licensed Clinical PsychologistTrauma Recovery & Anxiety DisordersSpecializing in Post-Accident PTSD
I'd used my laptop to design it, then printed it on cardstock at a 24-hour copy shop. The address was real—an office building downtown where my cousin Rachel worked as a dental hygienist. If anyone checked, they'd find a legitimate medical complex. They just wouldn't find Dr. Sarah Mitchell.
Not my proudest moment, but desperate times and all that.
I'd spent two days researching Damian Grey's medical history. Not legally, of course. But when you know someone's full name and address, the internet can tell you surprising things. Insurance claims from the accident. A prescription for anti-anxiety medication filled at a Walgreens six blocks from his apartment. And most importantly, a referral from his primary care doctor to the Seattle Trauma Recovery Center.
The same center where he'd apparently missed three appointments in the past month.
Which meant he was looking for help and not finding it. Perfect opening for a concerned psychologist who specialized in exactly his type of trauma.
I waited outside the Trauma Recovery Center at 2 PM on a Tuesday, when I knew he had another scheduled appointment. I'd dressed professionally but approachably—gray blazer, comfortable shoes, hair pulled back. My wedding ring was hidden in my purse. Dr. Sarah Mitchell wasn't married.
Damian showed up ten minutes late, walking like every step cost him effort. He paused outside the building's glass doors, rubbing that spot on his temple again. For a moment I thought he might turn around and leave.
Instead, he went inside.
I gave him five minutes, then followed.
The waiting room was all beige walls and motivational posters. A receptionist with kind eyes sat behind a curved desk, typing something into her computer. Two other people waited in chairs—an older man reading a magazine, a woman about my age staring at her phone.
And Damian, sitting in the corner farthest from everyone else.
I approached the receptionist's desk and spoke quietly. "Hi, I'm Dr. Sarah Mitchell. I specialize in post-accident trauma, and I was hoping to speak with your intake coordinator about referrals."
The receptionist smiled. "Of course. Let me get someone for you. Would you mind having a seat?"
I chose a chair within earshot of Damian but not so close as to seem obvious. He was filling out paperwork on a clipboard, his handwriting shaky. Every few lines, he'd stop and press his fingers against his forehead.
"Excuse me." I kept my voice gentle, professional. "I don't mean to intrude, but are you all right?"
He looked up, and I got my first close look at his eyes. Brown, tired, but with flecks of green that reminded me painfully of Mark's. "I'm fine. Just... headaches."
"I'm sorry to hear that. I'm Dr. Mitchell." I extended my hand. "I work with trauma recovery."
He hesitated before shaking my hand. His fingers were cold, slightly damp with nervous sweat. The moment our skin touched, the familiar chill shot up my arm.
But this time, it wasn't just cold. It was electric.
Mark's presence slammed into my consciousness like a tsunami. Not the gentle warmth I remembered, but pure, desperate energy. Love and terror and rage all mixed together in a way that made my head spin.
Ivy! Finally. I've been trying to reach you. He doesn't know what's happening. Weber did something to him, something that night—
I tried to keep my expression neutral while Mark's spirit flooded my mind with images. The restaurant where he'd met Weber for dinner. A glass of wine that tasted wrong. Weber's face, smiling while Mark collapsed.
—not an accident. Weber drugged me, then used something on him. Ancient magic, family rituals. I'm trapped here, and he's—
"Dr. Mitchell?" Damian's voice sounded far away. "You're... your hand is really cold."
I blinked, realizing I was still holding his hand. Still connected to Mark's desperate spirit. "Sorry, circulation issues." I let go, and Mark's presence immediately dimmed to a whisper.
But Damian was staring at me with a strange expression. "Have we met before? You look familiar."
My heart hammered. "I don't think so. But trauma can sometimes create false memories of faces. It's more common than you'd think."
"Mr. Grey?" A woman in scrubs appeared beside us. "We're ready for your intake appointment."
Damian stood, still watching me with that puzzled expression. "It was nice meeting you, Dr. Mitchell."
"Actually," I said, making a split-second decision, "I have some time between appointments. Would you be interested in a brief consultation? No charge, just to see if we might be a good fit for ongoing therapy."
The intake nurse looked confused. "I'm sorry, but Mr. Grey is scheduled—"
"It's okay," Damian said quietly. "I'd like to talk to her first."
Twenty minutes later, we were sitting in a small consultation room. Generic office furniture, a box of tissues on the table between us, motivational artwork on the walls. I'd convinced the staff that a specialist consultation might help with Damian's treatment plan.
"So," I said, settling into my chair with a notepad. "Tell me about the headaches."
Damian rubbed his temple again. "They started after the accident. But they're not normal headaches. Sometimes I hear... voices. Sometimes I remember things that didn't happen to me."
My pen froze over the paper. "What kind of voices?"
"Just one voice, really. A man's voice. He sounds... angry. Desperate. Like he's trying to tell me something important, but I can never understand what."
Mark. He was hearing Mark's spirit.
"And the memories?"
"Fragments, mostly. Being married to someone. Working as a lawyer. Having dinner with a man who seemed friendly but..." He shuddered. "It felt wrong. Like I was watching someone else's life through their eyes."
I had to work to keep my voice steady. "These episodes, when do they happen most often?"
"When I'm stressed. Or when someone touches me unexpectedly. The physical contact seems to trigger them." He looked at me directly. "Like when you shook my hand just now."
"What did you experience?"
"The voice got louder. More urgent. And I saw..." He paused, his face pale. "I saw a woman with brown hair. She was crying. Someone was calling her name."
Ivy. Mark had been trying to show him my face.
"Damian," I said carefully, "I want to try something. A grounding technique that might help with the voices. But it requires brief physical contact. Are you comfortable with that?"
He nodded, though he looked nervous.
"Give me your hands."
He extended them across the table. I took them gently, and immediately Mark's presence exploded back to life.
Ivy, listen to me. Weber killed me. He's been using family magic for years, binding spirits to control people. He turned Damian into a weapon, made him drive into me. But the binding went wrong. Instead of controlling him, it trapped me inside his mind.
"What are you seeing?" I asked Damian, though I was really talking to Mark.
Damian's eyes had gone distant. When he spoke, his voice was different. Slightly deeper, with an accent that sounded like home.
"Weber's planning something bigger. He knows you're investigating. You have to stay away from him, Ivy. Promise me."
My blood turned to ice. He'd said my name. Damian had just called me Ivy.
"What did you say?"
But Damian's eyes were rolling back in his head. His hands went rigid in mine, then started to convulse.
"Ivy," he said again, but louder now. Desperate. "Small careful Weber. He has the ring. The family ring. It lets him control—"
His body went into full seizure.
I let go of his hands and lunged for the emergency button on the wall. "Help! I need help in here!"
Damian was on the floor now, his whole body shaking. But he was still trying to talk, words coming out between the convulsions.
"Ivy... dangerous... he knows... you're... coming..."
Medical staff rushed in. Someone pushed me aside as they worked to stabilize him. I stood against the wall, watching them check his vitals, wondering if I'd just killed the only connection I had to my husband.
But as they lifted Damian onto a gurney, his eyes found mine. For just a moment, they were clear. Alert. And absolutely terrified.
"He's coming for you," he whispered.
Then his eyes closed, and they wheeled him away.
I stood in the empty consultation room, my hands still tingling from Mark's spiritual energy. The nurse who'd admitted us poked her head in.
"Dr. Mitchell? The paramedics want to know if you have any medical history that might explain the seizure."
"I'm sorry," I said, grabbing my purse. "I have to go."
I walked out of the building as quickly as I could without running. My car was three blocks away, but it felt like three miles. Every shadow looked like it might hide someone watching me. Every footstep behind me could be Weber's.
He knows you're coming.
Mark had tried to warn me through Damian's mouth. But warn me about what? And how could Weber possibly know I was investigating unless...
Unless he'd been watching me all along.
I reached my car and sat there for a long moment, my hands shaking as I tried to process everything I'd learned. Mark was definitely trapped inside Damian's consciousness. Weber had murdered my husband using some kind of supernatural binding magic. And now Weber knew I was getting close to the truth.
But there was something else. Something that chilled me more than Weber's threat.
When Damian had seized, when Mark's spirit had taken control of his voice, he'd tried to tell me something about a ring. A family ring that let Weber control people.
What if Mark wasn't the first person Weber had killed this way? What if there were other spirits, other victims, trapped in other unwilling hosts?
And what if I was about to become the next one?