"Dr. Kinbott, how lovely to see you."
Principal Larissa Weems stood in the doorway of my office like she'd materialized there, which, given her abilities, she might have. I'd been so focused on cataloging potential weapons—the letter opener was too dull, the desk lamp too unwieldy, the potted plant laughably inadequate—that I hadn't heard her knock. Now she filled the doorframe with her imposing height, immaculate as always in a cream suit that probably cost more than my monthly rent. Her smile was warm, but her eyes were doing that thing I remembered from the show; constantly assessing, calculating, looking for threats.
I stood up too quickly, nearly knocking over my coffee mug. "Principal Weems. Please, come in."
She glided into the office with the kind of grace that made me intensely aware of my own body's awkwardness. I'd spent the morning trying to make the space feel less like a future crime scene and more like an actual therapist's office, but I wasn't sure I'd succeeded. The furniture was where it was supposed to be; the desk, the chairs, and the couch where Tyler would eventually sit and lie to me about his feelings. But knowing what was coming had stripped away any sense of safety the room might have offered.
"I hope I'm not interrupting," Weems said, settling into one of the chairs across from my desk. She placed a leather portfolio on her lap, her posture perfect, her expression pleasant. Everything about her screamed control, which made sense for a woman whose entire job was managing a school full of teenagers with supernatural abilities. "I know the semester doesn't officially begin for another two weeks, but I wanted to discuss some of our more... delicate cases before the chaos descends."
"Of course," I said, returning to my chair and trying to project the kind of calm competence that Valerie Kinbott would have radiated naturally. "I appreciate you taking the time. I want to make sure I'm prepared for whatever challenges the students might bring."
The irony of that statement wasn't lost on me. I was prepared, all right. Prepared to know exactly which student was going to murder me while having absolutely no idea how to prevent it.
Weems opened her portfolio, revealing a stack of manila folders. "Nevermore has always attracted students with complex backgrounds. As you know, outcasts often face significant trauma simply by virtue of being different. Add adolescence into the mix, and well..." She gave a delicate shrug that somehow conveyed volumes about the trials of managing teenage outcasts.
I nodded, forcing myself to focus. This was important. Weems wasn't just making small talk; she was giving me information I'd need to do my job. Information I'd need to survive.
"I've reviewed the files you sent over last month," I said, grateful that Valerie's memories supplied the context even as my own mind was screaming that none of this should be possible. "Several students flagged for continued support. I'm planning to reach out to them individually during the first week."
"Excellent." Weems pulled out the first folder. "I want to start with our returning students, but I have a new admission that requires special attention." She paused, and something flickered across her face; concern, or maybe resignation. "Wednesday Addams."
My heart stuttered. There it was. The name I'd been waiting for, dreading, needing to hear.
"Addams," I repeated, keeping my voice neutral. "I'm not familiar with the family."
"No, I wouldn't expect you to be." Weems slid the folder across my desk. "The Addamses are... singular. Quite prominent in outcast circles, though they keep to themselves. Wednesday is transferring from Nancy Reagan High School following an incident involving piranhas and the school's swim team."
I opened the folder, even though I already knew what I'd find. Wednesday's school photo stared up at me; pale face, dark braids, an expression that suggested she was mentally cataloging the photographer's weaknesses. The incident report was there too, written in the dry language of school administrators trying to describe something that defied normal categorization.
"Piranhas," I said, scanning the report. According to the file, Wednesday had somehow acquired a bag of live piranhas and released them into the school pool while the water polo team was practicing. Multiple students had been injured. Wednesday had shown no remorse. Her parents had been "unhelpful" during the disciplinary proceedings.
"Wednesday has been expelled from multiple institutions," Weems continued, her tone carefully neutral. "Her parents, Gomez and Morticia, are Nevermore alumni themselves. They've requested—insisted, really—that we give her a chance. They believe she'll thrive in an environment where her particular talents are understood rather than feared."
"And you're not convinced," I said, reading between the lines.
Weems' smile tightened almost imperceptibly. "I'm convinced that Wednesday Addams is brilliant, troubled, and potentially dangerous. Her psychological profile suggests antisocial tendencies, difficulty with emotional regulation, and a fascination with death and violence that goes beyond typical adolescent rebellion." She leaned forward slightly. "I need you to assess whether she's a threat to herself or others. And if she is, I need you to help her before she destroys everything I've built at Nevermore."
The weight of that statement settled over me like a burial shroud. In the original timeline, Weems had been trying to protect her school, protect her students, maintain the delicate balance between outcasts and normies. She'd been trying so hard that she'd missed the real threat entirely. She'd suspected Wednesday while Laurel Gates had been planning genocide right under her nose.
And now I was supposed to do what? Tell her the truth? Warn her that her botany teacher was actually a homicidal maniac? That would go over well.
"I'll do my best," I said, which was both true and completely inadequate. "When does Wednesday arrive?"
"Next Sunday. She'll be court-ordered to attend weekly therapy sessions with you as part of her probation." Weems' expression softened slightly. "I know that court-mandated therapy is rarely effective, particularly with someone as... resistant as Wednesday. But I'm hoping that your approach might reach her where others have failed."
I looked down at Wednesday's photo again, at those dark, unreadable eyes. In the show, Kinbott had tried to force Wednesday to open up, to express emotions, to be vulnerable. Wednesday had responded with mockery and disdain. Their sessions had been combative, unproductive, a complete waste of time for everyone involved.
I couldn't let that happen again. I needed Wednesday on my side, or at least not actively hostile to me. I needed her to trust me enough to listen when I pointed her toward the truth. But how did you earn the trust of someone who viewed therapy as a form of torture and adults as inherently suspect?
"I'll need to think about my approach," I said slowly. "Wednesday doesn't strike me as someone who responds well to traditional therapeutic techniques."
"That's putting it mildly." Weems allowed herself a brief smile. "Her previous therapist described their sessions as 'psychological warfare.' Wednesday apparently spent most of the hour analyzing the therapist's insecurities and pointing out contradictions in his theoretical framework."
Despite everything—despite the fear and the impossible situation and the knowledge that I was sitting in a room where I would probably die—I felt a small spark of something that might have been amusement. That sounded exactly like Wednesday. She wouldn't waste her time pretending to have feelings she didn't possess. She'd treat therapy like an intellectual exercise, a game to be won.
Maybe that was the key. Maybe I didn't need to make Wednesday like me. I just needed to make myself useful.
"I'll work on a modified treatment plan," I said. "Something that respects her intelligence and autonomy while still addressing the behavioral concerns."
Weems nodded approvingly. "I knew I made the right choice in hiring you, Dr. Kinbott. You understand that our students need more than just traditional therapy. They need someone who can meet them where they are."
She pulled out another folder, and my stomach dropped even though I knew what was coming.
"There's one other case I want to discuss. Tyler Galpin."
I managed not to flinch, but it was a close thing. "The Sheriff's son?"
"Yes. Tyler isn't a Nevermore student, obviously, but Marilyn Thornhill—our new botany teacher—has expressed concern about him. His mother passed away last year, and he's been struggling. Isolated, angry, acting out in small ways." Weems' expression was sympathetic. "Normally I wouldn't involve you with a normie teenager, but Tyler works at the Weathervane, and many of our students frequent that establishment. If he's in crisis, I'd prefer to address it before it impacts our students."
Before it impacts your students. The phrase echoed in my head with bitter irony. Tyler's crisis was going to do a lot more than impact Nevermore students. It was going to tear them apart. Literally.
"Marilyn Thornhill," I repeated, keeping my voice steady. "I haven't met her yet."
"You'll like her," Weems said warmly. "She's new to Nevermore this year, but she's already made quite an impression. Very nurturing, deeply invested in the students' wellbeing. She's the one who noticed Tyler's struggles and suggested he might benefit from professional help." She slid Tyler's folder across the desk. "I told her you'd be willing to take him on."
I stared at the folder like it was a live grenade. Inside would be Tyler's information; his address, his school records, probably a photo. The boy who would become a monster. The boy who was, right now, just a traumatized teenager grieving his mother.
The boy whose therapist Laurel Gates wanted dead.
This was the game, then. Laurel had positioned Tyler as my patient, knowing that eventually she'd need to eliminate me to keep her secret safe. She'd probably already been planning it when she suggested Tyler seek therapy. It was elegant, really, get rid of the witness and frame the dead therapist for the murders in one efficient move.
"Of course," I said, picking up the folder with fingers that wanted to tremble. "I'm happy to help. When would Tyler like to start?"
"Marilyn is going to speak with him and his father. I expect you'll hear from them within the next few days." Weems stood, smoothing down her suit. "I won't take up any more of your time, Dr. Kinbott. I just wanted to make sure you were aware of our most pressing cases."
Pressing. That was one word for it.
I stood as well, moving around the desk to walk her to the door. "I appreciate you coming by, Principal Weems. I'll review these files and develop appropriate treatment plans."
She paused at the door, turning back to look at me with those assessing eyes. For a moment I wondered if she could somehow see through me, if her shapeshifting abilities came with some kind of enhanced perception. Could she tell I wasn't really Valerie Kinbott? Could she sense that something was wrong?
"Dr. Kinbott," she said quietly, "Nevermore Academy serves some of the most vulnerable young people in the outcast community. They come to us broken, often traumatized, always afraid of what they are and what they might become. Your role in their healing cannot be overstated." She held my gaze. "I need to know that I can trust you. That you'll put their wellbeing above all else."
The intensity of her stare made me want to look away, but I forced myself to hold steady. "You can trust me," I said, and meant it. I might not be the real Valerie Kinbott, but I was going to do everything in my power to protect these kids. Even if it killed me.
Which it probably would.
Weems studied me for another long moment, then nodded. "Good. I'll be in touch." She left in a swirl of cream fabric and expensive perfume, closing the door softly behind her.
I stood there for several seconds, staring at the closed door, before my legs gave out and I had to grab the edge of my desk for support. The folders were still there, waiting for me. Wednesday's file. Tyler's file. The two people who would define whether I lived or died in the next few weeks.
I picked up Wednesday's folder first, carrying it back to my desk. The office felt too quiet now. Outside my window, Jericho was going about its business, completely unaware that a teenage girl who communed with death was about to arrive, or that a monster was waiting to be activated.
I opened the folder and started reading, really reading this time, looking for anything that might help me understand Wednesday Addams better than the show had allowed. Her academic records were exemplary; straight A's in everything except physical education, which she'd apparently boycotted on principle. Teacher comments ranged from "brilliant but disturbing" to "genuinely concerned for my safety." Her disciplinary record was extensive: bringing weapons to school, making threats, conducting unauthorized experiments, showing "morbid fascination with violence and death."
But there were other details too, things the show hadn't focused on. Wednesday volunteered at a local animal shelter. She'd written several award-winning short stories for the school literary magazine. She'd organized a protest against the school's dress code that had somehow resulted in three administrators resigning. She was president of the Debate Club, where she was apparently "devastatingly effective" at dismantling her opponents' arguments.
This wasn't just a troubled teenager. This was someone brilliant and strategic, someone who saw the world differently than everyone else and refused to apologize for it. Someone who could be a powerful ally if I could figure out how to approach her.
I pulled out a fresh notebook—Valerie had dozens of them, all neatly organized by patient—and started drafting a strategy.
Wednesday Addams: Approach
Goal: Establish myself as a useful resource without triggering her defenses or making myself a target
DO NOT:
- Try to make her talk about her feelings
- Suggest she needs to be "fixed"
- Treat her like a child
- Pathologize her interests
- Force emotional expression
DO:
- Respect her intelligence
- Offer information, not judgment
- Frame therapy as a collaboration, not treatment
- Provide historical/psychological context for local issues
- Give her space to be herself
Strategy: Make a deal. She has to show up for court-mandated sessions. I have to document that she's attending. We can both meet our obligations while making the time productive for her needs, not mine.
Offer: Local history, psychological profiles of key figures, access to information she might find useful for her own investigations (because she WILL investigate).
Boundaries: I won't try to change her. She doesn't get to psychoanalyze me (or at least, I won't react when she does).
The key is making myself valuable without being invasive. Wednesday doesn't need another adult trying to normalize her. She needs information and resources to pursue whatever mystery she'll inevitably uncover.
I sat back, reading over what I'd written. It felt right in a way that traditional therapy notes never would have for Wednesday. I wasn't trying to cure her of anything. I was trying to make myself an asset she'd actually use.
Now for the hard part.
I picked up Tyler's folder, and my hands were steady this time. I couldn't afford to be afraid every time I thought about him. Fear would make me slip up, would make me react wrong, would get me killed faster than anything else.
Tyler's file was thinner than Wednesday's. Standard school records, nothing exceptional. B's and C's, member of the baseball team until this year, no disciplinary issues. Teacher comments were bland: "Tyler is a quiet student," "Tyler completes his work adequately," "Tyler seems withdrawn but causes no problems."
The only notable thing was a counselor's note from last year, right after his mother's death: "Tyler is struggling with grief but refuses support services. Father reports he's 'handling it' but counselor remains concerned. Will continue to monitor."
He wasn't handling it. Obviously. Because Laurel Gates had found him at his most vulnerable and had started the grooming process that would eventually turn him into a weapon.
I needed to understand that process. I needed to understand exactly how she'd conditioned him so I could figure out how to undo it. But I couldn't be obvious about it. If Tyler reported back to Laurel that his new therapist was asking suspicious questions, I'd be dead before I could say "countertransference."
I started a new page in my notebook.
Tyler Galpin: Approach
Goal: Build genuine therapeutic relationship before Laurel can fully weaponize him
Challenges:
- He's already being manipulated by Laurel
- I can't reveal I know about the Hyde
- Any intervention has to seem like normal therapy
- He's probably reporting our sessions back to Laurel
- One wrong move = I die
Strategy: Play the role of concerned therapist perfectly. Be exactly what Laurel expects: competent but ultimately harmless. Someone who cares about Tyler but doesn't see the real danger.
Focus sessions on:
- Grief processing (genuine therapeutic need)
- Relationship with father (source of vulnerability Laurel is exploiting)
- Sense of identity and control (key to countering Laurel's conditioning)
- Building internal locus of control vs external validation
The goal isn't to "cure" him or prevent the transformation, I don't even know if that's possible. The goal is to strengthen his sense of self enough that when Laurel gives him commands, there's a part of him that can resist.
Plant seeds of doubt about authority figures who "truly understand" him. Encourage critical thinking about manipulation tactics. Make him question whether people who isolate him from others really have his best interests at heart.
But all of this has to be subtle. So subtle that Tyler doesn't notice, and Laurel doesn't suspect.
I was reading over my notes when my phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number: "Dr. Kinbott, this is Marilyn Thornhill from Nevermore. Principal Weems mentioned you might be able to help a young man I'm concerned about. Would you have time to chat this week? I'd love to discuss Tyler Galpin's situation over coffee. My treat! ☺"
My blood ran cold.
There she was. Laurel Gates, hiding behind a cheerful emoji and an offer of coffee. The coffee she'd eventually poison. The woman who would smile at me right up until the moment she ordered Tyler to tear me apart.
And I had to respond. I had to play along. I had to meet her for coffee and pretend I didn't know she was planning my murder.
I stared at the message for a long moment, feeling the trap close around me. This was really happening. The game had begun, and I was already behind.
Finally, I typed back: "That would be lovely. The Weathervane tomorrow at 10?"
The response came immediately: "Perfect! See you then! 😊"
I set the phone down and looked around my office. This space was a death trap, and I was walking into it with my eyes wide open.
But I had one advantage Valerie Kinbott hadn't possessed: I knew what was coming.
I opened my laptop and started researching. Hydes. Conditioning. Psychological manipulation. Counter-conditioning techniques. Anything that might give me an edge. I had two weeks before Wednesday arrived, two weeks before the murders started, two weeks to prepare.
Two weeks to figure out how to survive a horror story where I was supposed to be the first victim.
Outside my window, the sun was setting over Jericho, painting the sky in shades of blood and fire. Somewhere in this town, Laurel Gates was planning her next move. Somewhere, Tyler Galpin was serving coffee and trying to hold himself together. Somewhere, Wednesday Addams was probably sharpening knives and counting down the days until she could escape her family.
And here I was, Dr. Valerie Kinbott, the woman who knew too much and could do too little, drafting therapy notes for a girl who didn't need therapy and a boy who needed so much more than I could give him.
I looked down at my notes one more time, at the strategies and approaches and desperate attempts to change a story that had already been written.