Chapter 3 - The Doctor Who Wanted Noah Gone|
Dr. Adrian Kessler arrived at the mansion shortly after sunset.
He was fifty-one, handsome in a polished, unsettling way, with silver-streaked hair and expensive glasses.
According to Mrs. Hargrove, he was one of Chicago's most respected child psychiatrists.
He had been treating Noah since the night his mother died.
I met him outside the library.
“You must be the new housekeeper,” he said.
“Clara Reed.”
His eyes traveled over my red uniform and white apron.
“I understand Noah attacked you.”
“Yes.”
“Then you understand why he requires specialized care.”
I hesitated.
“He was frightened.”
Dr. Kessler smiled patiently.
“Miss Reed, fear and aggression often appear together.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
His tone sharpened.
“Because I've spent two years studying this child's behavior, and you have spent two hours with him.”
Before I could respond, Dominic entered.
“Adrian.”
The doctor turned.
“Dominic. We need to discuss placement.”
My stomach tightened.
“Placement?”
Dr. Kessler ignored me.
“Noah's behavior is escalating. Today's incident proves that home care is no longer sufficient.”
Dominic folded his arms.
“What are you suggesting?”
“A private residential treatment facility. Somewhere equipped to manage dangerous episodes.”
I thought about Noah trembling on the foyer floor.
Dangerous.
That was the word everyone used.
Nobody seemed interested in asking why he was terrified.
Dominic looked toward the window.
“Would he be alone?”
“During the initial adjustment period, yes.”
“For how long?”
“Possibly several weeks.”
Dominic's jaw tightened.
“No.”
The doctor sighed.
“Dominic, you've already exhausted your options.”
“Then find another one.”
“Money cannot solve every problem.”
Dominic turned.
“And separating my son from everyone he knows will?”
The room fell silent.
Dr. Kessler adjusted his glasses.
Then he looked at me.
“Perhaps Miss Reed can offer her professional opinion.”
It was meant to embarrass me.
I knew that.
But something inside me refused to remain quiet.
“I don't have a professional opinion,” I replied. “I have a question.”
The doctor raised his eyebrows.
“Go ahead.”
“Has anyone asked Noah what happened to his mother?”
Dominic's face changed.
Dr. Kessler's smile disappeared.
“He was only two.”
“He's four now.”
“Children that age have unreliable memories.”
“Maybe.”
I swallowed.
“But today he mentioned a blue room.”
The doctor's hand froze against his glasses.
Only for a second.
Yet I noticed.
Dominic noticed, too.
“What blue room?” Dr. Kessler asked.
Before I could answer, he quickly continued:
“Children often invent symbolic spaces during trauma.”
I looked at him.
“You haven't heard what he said.”
He smiled again.
“Then perhaps you should leave the treatment to professionals.”
Later that evening, I passed the library and heard Dr. Kessler speaking on his phone.
His voice was low.
Controlled.
But unmistakably angry.
“The new girl is a problem.”
I stopped walking.
He continued:
“Noah is starting to talk.”
A pause.
May you like
Then:
“If she gets him into the north wing, everything we've done will be ruined.”
