Chapter 205: Another Person Holding a Knife
Michael's knuckles tapped against the steering wheel. "Last week her brother Lucas got a Samoyed. The puppy even ran into her room and made a mess."
Though Sophia appeared calm on the surface, Michael could tell she was on the verge of an episode—she was just holding it in, refusing to let it out.
She had always been good at hiding her condition.
Nate closed his eyes. The trauma from age nine could still make her lose control twenty years later.
Or rather, it had tormented her for twenty years without pause.
While they were stopped at a red light, Michael glanced toward the passenger seat. "Nate, don't use your clinical templates on her."
"Don't worry."
Neon lights swept across the window as Nate unconsciously rubbed the old scar on his wrist.
"I know perfectly well—she hates being treated like a patient."
……
Applewood Estate.
Catching sight of the silver sports car in the garage, Michael slowly backed the Maybach into the adjacent spot. "She's here."
The car came to a stop. Nate grabbed his medical bag and stepped out.
A graceful figure stood at the villa's entrance. He turned to look and met a pair of familiar eyes.
"Welcome back, Dr. Kerr."
Nate adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses and walked toward her. "Your welcome feels hollow. You don't seem particularly pleased to see me."
Sophia laughed lightly, turning to lead Nate inside. "How were the past few years? Did you enjoy yourself?"
"What's enjoyable about war zones? Does dissecting corpses count as fun ?" Nate settled onto the sofa, placing his medical bag on the table. He watched her silhouette retrieving glasses in the open kitchen. "I heard your brother got a dog?"
"Yes. A three-month-old Samoyed." Sophia returned with two glasses of whiskey over ice, handing one to Nate.
Her hand was steady, her voice flat. Yet Nate noticed the crescent marks on her palm—nail indentations.
He accepted the whiskey and took a sip. "Need help?"
"I can handle it." She curved her lips, eyes clear and composed. "Always have."
"If you truly didn't need help, Michael wouldn't have asked me to come back." Nate set his glass on the coffee table, then opened his leather medical bag and extracted a manila folder. "This is for you."
Michael entered carrying Nate's luggage. Sophia handed him the second whiskey before accepting Nate's folder.
"What is it?" She looked down, untying the string and pulling out the documents inside.
Nate adjusted his glasses, looking thoroughly professional. "Case studies from the past few years on treating post-traumatic stress disorder. Might be useful for you."
Sophia skimmed through a few pages, gave a derisive laugh, and stuffed the papers back into the folder, and tossed it casually onto the kitchen counter.
She opened the fridge, pulled out a bottle of sparkling water, twisted off the cap, and took a sip before responding leisurely. "It's not some serious illness. Why make such a fuss?"
"You're struggling to hold it together, aren't you?" Nate's glance seemed to pierce through all of Sophia's defenses. "Every time you encounter a dog, you havea traumatic stress response. You can only rely on physical pain to suppress your impulses and keep yourself calm and lucid."
Sophia paused, gulping down two mouthfuls of sparkling water. The icy sensation flooded her body, barely suppressing the agitation rising within.
"Michael didn't ask you back just for this, did he?"
"You're right."
Nate withdrew his piercing gaze and sipped his whiskey.
"He wanted to know if your emotional detachment could be alleviated. But as I've said before, this isn't a mental illness—it's purely self-defense developed from your upbringing."
Difficulty trusting others, offering sincerity, and investing emotion. Once betrayed, she would abandon everything to protect herself.
In a sense, it wasn't entirely a bad thing.
"If there's no illness, then there's nothing to treat." Sophia's lips curved, but the smile didn't reach her eyes.
Behind his lenses, those gentle eyes observed every micro-expression on Sophia's face. After a long moment, Nate spoke slowly. "Emotional detachment isn't an illness, but what about your post-traumatic stress disorder? Plan to let it torment you forever?"
Michael knew Sophia had been hiding something all these years. Or perhaps, there was a demon living inside her body.
Otherwise, she couldn't have created "Sisyphus in Brooklyn."
He couldn't help but add, "Sophia, if you were only afraid of dogs, we could simply keep them away from you. But you know as well as we do—you don't only have episodes when you see dogs."
Like what happened with Emily last time.
Sophia lowered her eyes and fell silent. She had to admit Michael was right. She worked hard to suppress her dark side, but there were still times when her emotions spiraled out of control.
At first, she thought avoiding dogs would be enough. But over the years, she'd discovered that even when she could control herself around dogs, she'd lose control when someone crossed certain lines.
She wasn't entirely sure herself whether this was post-traumatic stress disorder.
Sensing her wavering, Nate asked at the right moment, "Interested in doing a sandplay therapy assessment?"
Sophia looked up. Nate continued, "Think of it as a little game."
Under Michael's expectant gaze, Sophia finally nodded.
Nate raised an eyebrow, glancing at Michael. "Let her have a sip of your drink."
Michael looked puzzled. "She has terrible alcohol tolerance. One drink and she's out."
Nate smiled faintly. "That's the point—to relax her mental state. The sandplay results will be more accurate that way."
Sophia shot Nate an exasperated look, accepted Michael's whiskey, and took a small sip. "You've become even more insufferable than seven years ago."
Nate's lips curved. "Thanks for the compliment."
The alcohol took effect quickly. Within ten minutes, Sophia felt her head growing fuzzy, her limbs going soft.
Not drunk, but pleasantly buzzed.
Nate observed her state. Seeing her consciousness had relaxed, he could begin his therapeutic plan.
"Imagine you're still at the Smith family home. You have two brothers—one who loves causing trouble and playing pranks on you in various ways, another who's taciturn and largely ignores you. Your parents are rarely home; you hardly ever see them. If you had to represent this household with three objects, what would they be?"
Sophia's eyes grew hazy. Leaning back against the sofa, she stared at the ceiling, seemingly pondering for a long time before speaking slowly. "A knife, a dog, and a little doll."
Nate recorded the three items Sophia mentioned in his notebook. Each was highly characteristic, perfectly aligned with the scene Sophia witnessed at age nine.
Then he heard Michael whisper in his ear, "The knife is Andrew, the dog is John, and the little doll... is her."
In that cold household of three people, the three objects represented each person's nature.
Nate felt a moment of shock. He didn't know Andrew and John well, but hearing Michael's interpretation, perhaps Sophia's psychological trauma truly didn't stem only from witnessing that stabbed dog at age nine.
He continued questioning. "One day the little doll hears a commotion. When she turns around, what will she see?"
Sophia's eyes became vacant, as if certain images were playing before her. Her lips moved, forming words: "Another person... holding a knife."