THE FIRST

THE FIRST
The scent of brown sugar and butter still lingered faintly in the air, but the cookies had cooled long ago. Anise sat at the edge of the kitchen counter. The baking moment with Aunt Marie had felt warm, even healing—but that was before the void returned.

Before she remembered.

Hadiza Umar.

She was there, at Aunt Marie’s doorstep. Anise remembered her eyes—stern, observing. She remembered her voice—calm, almost motherly. She remembered everything.

Anise sat at the dining table now with her eyes fixed on her laptop, finger frozen on the keyboard.

The name yielded nothing. No LinkedIn, no Facebook,  no government records, no recent job postings, no news articles, not even a random Pinterest profile. The face she remembered so clearly—olive skin, stark cheekbones, sharp eyes—was nowhere to be found. She tried every variation: Hadeeza, Hadezah, Umarr, H. Umar. Still nothing. It was as if the woman had never existed.

Yet she knew what she saw.

That woman had walked up the short driveway to Aunt Marie’s house with intent. She had knocked. She had spoken. Anise had opened the door.

She clenched her jaw and shut the laptop with one hand, her breath catching. “I know what I saw,” she muttered under her breath.

But the certainty now sounded like a lie.

Later that night, she FaceTimed Kelvin, holding her phone low so her expression wouldn’t show too much. But she didn’t need to say much—he heard the tightness in her voice. She had briefly narrated the incident to Kevin before the call.

“I looked her up,” she said. “There’s nothing. Literally. No trace of her. I know it sounds...”

“Weird,” Kevin filled in softly. “Yeah.”

“I didn’t imagine it. I couldn’t have.”

Kevin was quiet on the other end. “I don’t doubt that you believe what you saw. But… Anise, think about what you’ve been through in the last few months. You were drugged, kidnapped. You thought you were going to die, You lost your mother, You found your father. The mind… sometimes it tries to cope in ways we don’t even understand.”

She narrowed her eyes. “What are you trying to say?”

“That it might help to talk to someone. A professional.”

“You think I need a therapist?” The words hit her like a slap. “Are you saying I’m crazy?”

Kevin winced. “No. I’m saying you’re hurting. And I can’t help you the way a trained professional could.”

“I’m fine.”

“Anise,” he said, more gently now. “Even if you are… wouldn’t it still help to know for sure?”

She ended the call soon after that. Not angrily. Just exhausted.

And yet, the idea dug into her like a splinter. She barely slept that night, her mind looping over the same impossible thought: What if Hadiza wasn’t real?

Kelvin’s words hung in the air like smoke.

“You need to talk to someone, Anise.”
She brushed it off. Not because it didn’t make sense. But she simply couldn’t add another obligation to her plate. There were still court hearings, her father’s pending trial, her strained silence with Jake, the files from Elijah Dowen’s murder that she hadn't yet processed… and the slow-burning threat that Wesley Grant still wasn’t done.

But two nights later, something happened.

It started just after 3:00 a.m.

She’d gone to the bathroom. She remembered opening the tap. Washing her hands. The mirror was fogged, the overhead light flickering slightly—the way Aunt Marie always said it did when the weather shifted.

When she stepped into the hallway, a woman was standing at the far end, near the guest room.

Long black robe. Hair in loose waves. Pale skin like hers.

At first, Anise froze.

Her lips parted to ask who, and then the woman turned.

She didn’t scream.

She didn’t move.

She couldn’t.

Because standing just twenty feet away in the dim corridor…
was her mother.

Not a photo. Not a dream.
Her mother. Camilla Morgan.

She looked alive.

No blood. No bruises. Just calm. Distant. Watching her.

Anise’s legs buckled.

When she blinked, the hallway was empty.
By morning, Anise found herself on her phone, Googling therapists.

She filtered by female practitioners, Trauma specialists, and Licensed clinical psychologists. Preferably someone with a warm face.

She finally landed on one: Dr. Evelyn Rosenthal, PhD.

She had a private practice in the city, not too far from the courthouse district. Her website was minimalist—white space, lavender accents, serif font. There was a soft portrait of her on the landing page. Blonde hair swept into a low bun, a charcoal grey turtleneck, and quiet eyes. Not warm, exactly, but steady, Trustworthy.

Her credentials included:

Doctorate in Clinical Psychology from NYU
Certified in PTSD and trauma therapy
Over 15 years of clinical experience
Specialization in post-crisis care for women in high-stress investigations

That last part caught Anise’s breath. It was as if the profile had been tailored to her life.

She filled out the inquiry form on the website and left a message. She didn’t expect a reply that same day, but her phone buzzed before lunch with a call from an unknown number.

“Hello, this is Dr. Rosenthal’s office,” a calm receptionist said.

“We received your message. Dr. Rosenthal has an opening tomorrow at 2:15 PM. Would that work for you?”

Anise hesitated.

Then: “Yes. I’ll be there.”



The building was a minimalist glass-and-wood structure nestled between a wellness spa and a boutique bookstore. Not a hospital or a mental clinic. But it still smelled like one.

The reception took her name. Gave her a clipboard. No loud hellos or forced cheerfulness.

She sat in the waiting area until a tall, slender woman in a slate-colored coat appeared in the doorway.

“Dr. Evelyn Rosenthal,” she introduced herself crisply. Her accent was subtle, and her tone was great.

Anise stood, unsure whether to shake her hand. Evelyn didn’t offer one. She only gestured toward the open door behind her.

Dr. Evelyn Rosenthal sat across from Anise, pen poised but untouched, her dark eyes watching without pressure. The walls of her office were lined with muted art: faceless women, a rainy road disappearing into mist, a broken vase held together with gold. Kintsugi. Beauty in the broken.

Dr. Evelyn Rosenthal was neither intimidating nor grandmotherly. She had the quiet stillness of someone who had seen people break and rebuild themselves more times than she could count. She didn’t speak immediately, simply offered Anise a glass of water that Anise ignored, and then folded her hands together on her lap.

“You don’t want to be here,” Evelyn said softly.

Anise blinked once. Her throat tightened.

“My friend wanted me here.”

Evelyn raised an eyebrow, her expression unreadable. “Your friend?”

“Kevin,” Anise said. “He… he said it might help.”

“And what do you think?”

“I think it’s a waste of time,” she said quickly, too quickly. Her voice sounded sharper than she intended, so she added, “But I’m here, so…”

Evelyn nodded once, making a subtle note on the pad in her lap. “So tell me, Anise. If you had to start somewhere… anywhere… where would your story begin?”

Anise scoffed. “That’s a loaded question.”

“Most truths are,” Evelyn replied.

She wasn’t sure why—but something about the way Evelyn spoke, how her voice didn’t demand but rather invited, cracked something open inside her. Just slightly.

“I guess,” Anise said, picking at the skin near her.

Anise stared at the floor. The air felt denser than it had when she walked in. Her fingers traced the armrest slowly, like she was finding the edges of something inside herself.

"Where do I start?” she murmured.

“Anywhere,” Evelyn replied. “But preferably, the place where things started to feel… heavier than usual.”

Anise laughed. Not because it was funny, but because it wasn’t. “You know, I thought I was handling everything. The grief. The anger. The nightmares. The hallucinations—” she caught herself, eyes flicking toward Evelyn’s face, watching for judgment.

But Evelyn only nodded gently. “Go on.”

Anise’s breath hitched.

"She came to me,” she said, voice low. “My mother. She's been dead for months, but that night... it felt so real. I could smell her. I could hear her voice like she was sitting on the bed beside me, telling me not to forget. Telling me I wasn’t safe.”

Her eyes glistened, but she blinked the tears back, swallowing hard.

“I thought it was just a dream. But then… the glass broke on its own. The lights flickered or I thought they did. I  don’t know but I couldn’t move. I—I felt like I was being held down by air, like something was there with me. Something real. And I swear I heard her humming.”

Evelyn crossed one leg over the other, a poised stillness in her presence as she studied Anise quietly.

There was silent and Anise continued….

“Maybe I should start from the beginning.

“It started the day I came back from my solo trip.”

Her voice was small but steady, like the first steps onto unstable ground.

“I was gone for a few days. Nothing major. I needed space from everything. From myself, maybe. When I left, my mother was fine. Or… pretending to be fine. She always did that. Smiled even when the house was on fire.”

She stopped, eyes glazed now, watching a memory.

“I got back that afternoon. The house was quiet—too quiet. No tea kettle, no humming in the kitchen, no endless voice notes playing from her phone. I remember thinking maybe she went out for groceries. Maybe she was in the garden. But the air…”

She paused.

“The air had this thickness to it. Like time had stopped moving forward.”
The therapist said nothing. Just watched her gently.

“She was there. My mother. She was lying on the floor. Face turned away. Like she had simply… slipped into stillness.”

Her breath hitched.

“I didn’t even scream at first. I froze. I kept staring, hoping she’d move. Hoping it was a prank, a performance, anything but real. But there was blood. Just under her head. Both fresh and dried.”

Evelyn’s voice was gentle. “What did you do next?”

“I called the police. I don’t even remember what I said. I just kept repeating the address. Then I sat beside her. I did touch her so many times hoping she’d wake up. Her scarf was still tied like she was in the middle of her day.”

She blinked fast, holding back a fresh wave of tears.

“They came. The officers. The forensics team. The detective.”

“Detective?”

“Jake.”

Her voice cracked then. That name still held so many unfinished sentences.

“He walked in like he’d seen death before. But something about the way he looked at me… like I was the only thing in that room that could still breathe. He asked me questions, gently. Took the time to explain what the crime scene team was doing. Asked if I needed water.”

Evelyn let the silence breathe for a moment. Then, “Was that the first time you met Jake?”

Anise nodded. “Yes. And no. I knew him by name. He was known in the precinct for being one of the clean ones. Smart and relentless. I never imagined I’d meet him like that.”

“The investigation started. I didn’t even have time to grieve properly. They kept asking me about people. My mom’s history. Her routines. Any threats. Anything out of place. And then…”

She leaned forward slightly, her voice lowering like she was confessing something dark.

“I went into her room. That’s when I found the flash drive. It was in one of the ceramic bowls she used to put her keys and loose change. It was just… there. Waiting.”

Evelyn raised a brow. “And what did you do with it?”

“I did watch it and then I gave it to Jake.”

“Why?”

“Because I trusted him. Because I was still too broken to think clearly. And because something about the flash felt like it didn’t belong in my hands. It was evidence. I thought… I thought he’d know what to do with it.”

Her voice faltered.

“But days passed. Then weeks. No updates, nothing concrete. Until I couldn’t take it anymore and I took it back.”

“You stole it.”

“I had to. I copied everything and gave it to Kevin, my childhood friend. He’s good with tech. Always was. He decrypted it in hours.”

Evelyn leaned in. “What was on it?”

Anise’s eyes burned.