By the time I walk into the breakfast room, the coffee already smells burnt.
The sun hits the glass just right, turning the Long Island Sound into a flat, hammered sheet of silver beyond the windows. Down below, the narrow peninsula curls around the harbor, the back road snaking past town like a shortcut for people who know where the real entrances are. In here, everything glows: polished table, cream walls, a shallow bowl of oranges Evelyn has staff swap out the second they show a bruise.
“Good morning, darling,” Evelyn calls, bright as the china. “You’re just in time.”
Daniel looks up from his phone at the far end of the table. There’s a third place set beside him, a navy blazer draped over the back of the chair. A leather satchel rests neatly on the floor.
Someone clears his throat.
“Mrs. Cole-Mercer,” a man says, standing as I step fully into the room. “I’m Dr. Lang.”
He’s about my parents’ age, salt scattered across dark hair at his temples, wire-rimmed glasses that catch the light. His tie is the exact blue of the Mercer crest. Of course it is.
My grip tightens around the back of my chair. “Hello,” I say. “I didn’t realize we had company.”
“Oh, it’s terribly last-minute,” Evelyn says, waving a hand. The movement sends the scent of her perfume—white flowers and money—across the table. “Dr. Lang was already in Harbor Glen for hospital business and kindly offered to stop by.”
“Offered,” I repeat.
“We’ve all had a rather stressful holiday,” she continues, buttering her toast with surgical precision. “The storm, the staircase, dear Hannah’s near-accident on the back road, all the travel. I thought it might be good to have a professional check in. Nothing formal. Just a friendly conversation.”
Daniel’s jaw works. “Mom, you told me he was coming to talk about the hospital’s community programs,” he says.
“And that’s part of it,” she replies smoothly. “But he gave such an interesting talk last night about family systems and the importance of early intervention. It reminded me that we devote so many resources to strangers and rarely check in on ourselves.”
Dr. Lang smiles, hands folded loosely in front of him. “I always find families like yours benefit from proactive support,” he says. His voice is warm, just a hint of rasp. “Not because anything is wrong, but because high-pressure environments can amplify little misunderstandings.”
High-pressure environments. Like cliffside mansions above the law, hospitals that smell of disinfectant and secrets, a town where the Light the Harbor parade doubles as a social census.
“We’re fine,” I say, sliding into my chair. The leather sighs under my weight. “It’s been busy, but we’re fine.”
Evelyn’s gaze rests on me, all concern. “You gave us quite a fright on those stairs,” she says softly. “I still hear that horrible sound in my sleep. Carpet against wood, your scream…”
The memory flashes sharp: runner sliding under my feet, banister tearing my palm, the air rushing up toward my face. I taste copper again, the metallic tang of panic.
“They were loose tacks,” I say. “It happens.”
Dr. Lang nods, as though I’ve just passed some test. “Accidents can be very destabilizing,” he says. “Particularly when they resonate with earlier experiences.”
“Earlier experiences,” I repeat. “I work with traumatized kids, Doctor. I know accidents can be triggering. This one was just… unexpected.”
“Of course,” he says easily. “May I sit?”
Evelyn gestures gracefully. “Please. Join us. Hannah, I told Dr. Lang you have a background in social work. He was very interested.”
I look at Daniel. He gives me a small, tired half-smile, the one he wears when he’s trapped between us. “It’s not an ambush,” he says quietly. “Just… talk to him. It might help.”
Might help whom, I want to ask, but I reach for my coffee instead. The mug is heavy, the porcelain ridge smooth under my thumb, the Mercer crest pressed into the side like a fingerprint.
“I’m not opposed to therapy,” I say. “I just prefer to choose my own therapist.”
“Naturally,” Dr. Lang replies. “I’m not here to replace anyone you already see. Think of this as a consultation. A second opinion from someone who understands the unique pressures of families in the public eye.”
Families whose names appear on donor walls and yacht rosters, whose crest floats on hospital wings and foundation brochures. Families whose good deeds are cataloged in annual reports while their erasures never make it to print.
“Hannah has been under unusual strain,” Evelyn says. “New marriage, different social expectations. And with her mother’s history at the hospital…” She trails off, shaking her head with a little self-deprecating laugh. “I worry about what old ghosts this season may have stirred up.”
My fork cuts too hard into my omelet, squealing against the plate. “My mother’s history?” I ask.
“Nursing can be grueling,” Evelyn says, butter-knife hovering midair. “Night shifts, exposure to so much suffering. Daniel mentioned she worked at Harbor Glen Memorial once. It’s no wonder you care deeply about our adoption work. Those memories can imprint on a child.”
She says “our adoption work” like a blessing, not like a system that creates paper orphans and kids who vanish between case numbers.
Dr. Lang turns his attention fully to me, eyes kind, clinical. “Would you be open to talking more privately after breakfast?” he asks. “Just you and me, thirty or forty minutes. We can explore how all these pieces intersect for you.”
“We?” I echo.
“Your personal history, the stressors of entering such a prominent family, the recent scares,” he says. “Sometimes when many threads pull at once, it can be helpful to see where the knot really is.”
The knot is sitting at the head of the table, spreading jam on toast.
“I don’t know,” I say. “I have a lot to do today.”
“We cleared your morning,” Evelyn says gently. “I asked Mrs. Greene to handle the errands. Take this time for yourself, Hannah. For us. I’d hate to think our concern made you uncomfortable.”
The words hook into my ribs. If I say no, I’m ungrateful, avoidant. If I say yes, I step directly into whatever narrative she’s weaving.
Daniel reaches under the table, fingertips brushing my knee. “I can sit in, if you want,” he offers. “Or wait outside.”
Dr. Lang shakes his head lightly. “I prefer to start one-on-one,” he says. “It’s difficult to be candid with a spouse in the room.”
More difficult to coach, I think.
I take a breath. The air carries coffee, toast, the faint woodsmoke from the living room fireplace. Beneath it all is that other smell, the one that drifts up from the hill: tangy hospital antiseptic, the scent of cleaned-up emergencies.
“Fine,” I say. “We can talk.”
Evelyn’s shoulders lower, relieved. “Wonderful,” she says. “The library is free. I had a carafe of tea sent in. Hannah likes peppermint.”
Of course she told him what I like.
Dr. Lang sits in one of the leather armchairs by the library window, notebook balanced on his knee. I take the opposite chair, the one that creaks when you lean back, spine pressing into a carved wooden ridge.
Snow from last week still clings in gray patches to the lawn outside, the cliffs dropping away beyond the manicured edge. Boats bob far below, the masts from the Light the Harbor parade still strung with lights that haven’t been taken down yet, a constellation of good intentions reflecting on water that would kill you in minutes.
“I appreciate you agreeing to this,” he says. “Your mother-in-law cares deeply about you.”
“She cares deeply about how I appear,” I say.
He chuckles, like I’ve made a harmless joke. “Appearances do matter here,” he says. “Harbor Glen is… particular.”
“You know the town?” I ask.
“I consult for several families in the area,” he says. “It’s a unique ecosystem. Cliffside mansions, hospital board seats, country club politics. Lots of power, lots of pressure to be perfect. No one is immune.”
He flips the notebook open, pen poised. The soft scratch of ink on paper makes my skin itch.
“What did Evelyn tell you?” I ask.
He lifts his gaze. “That she adores you,” he says. “That you’re bright, principled, and that you’ve had a very challenging few weeks. She worries that the transition into such a high-profile family might be stirring up old anxieties connected to your father’s absence and your mother’s difficult years.”
My throat goes dry. “She said that?”
“She also mentioned some… conflicts around certain family documents,” he adds. “Inheritance matters, trust language, questions you’ve raised about those. She framed them as understandable curiosity, but she’s concerned you may be interpreting normal estate planning through a lens of suspicion.”
Normal estate planning. Like redacted beneficiaries and contracts built on secrecy.
“So this is about my ‘lens’,” I say.
“We all see the world through our histories,” he replies. “Yours includes a father who left early and a mother who was under immense strain. It would be surprising if trust didn’t feel complicated.”
Heat prickles up my neck. “Trust is complicated because your client’s family keeps lying,” I say.
His pen moves again. “That’s an important distinction,” he says evenly. “From your perspective, they’re lying.”
“From my perspective, the staircase runner was tampered with,” I say. “From my perspective, the police report about Lydia’s accident was altered. That’s not a feeling; those are facts on paper.”
He raises a hand gently. “I’m not here to litigate events,” he says. “I’m interested in your internal experience when you perceive those inconsistencies. How your mind organizes them.”
“You mean, why I don’t just let them go,” I say.
“I mean,” he says, “what makes certain patterns irresistible to you. Especially patterns involving missing children, adoptions, and medical records. Given your own questions about your birth history, it’s not unusual to be drawn to stories that echo your own.”
My fingers curl into my palms. “You read Riley’s file on me,” I say before I can stop myself.
He frowns, genuinely puzzled. “Riley?”
Right. Evelyn would never give him that name. I swallow it back. “I’ve been looking into my mom’s time at the hospital,” I say instead. “I have questions about what really happened when I was born. That’s not pathological. That’s curiosity.”
“Curiosity can be healthy,” he says. “It can also become an organizing principle that distorts other relationships.”
“So either I’m compliant, or I’m obsessed,” I say. “Those are the choices?”
“I’m not assigning labels,” he replies. “I’m inviting you to consider whether your current level of vigilance is proportionate to the present threat. You nearly slipped on a stair; that was frightening. But is it possible that past experiences of instability are amplifying your sense of danger now?”
Images flash—my mother nodding off at the kitchen table after a night shift, eviction notices tucked under rubber bands around unpaid bills, my father’s empty chair. Then the runner giving way, the shadow at the top of the stairs, Evelyn’s calm voice blaming old carpets.
“I’d say almost falling to my death qualifies as ‘present threat’,” I say.
“Of course,” he says quickly. “Your safety matters. I’m not minimizing that. I’m asking: when you think about that moment, does your mind stay with the physical event, or does it immediately leap to elaborate meanings? Conspiracies, intentional harm, connections to unrelated documents?”
I stare at him. “If someone benefits from my fear and silence, is it still ‘elaborate’ to wonder if they helped create it?” I ask.
His eyes soften. “You have a very sophisticated mind,” he says. “You make connections quickly. For a social worker, that’s a strength. For a family member in a high-stress household, it can get you hurt, emotionally, if those connections aren’t grounded in shared reality.”
Shared reality. The kind defined by whoever writes the charts.
“So if my ‘shared reality’ doesn’t match Evelyn’s, mine loses,” I say.
“Not loses,” he says. “Becomes a perspective we hold lightly. Especially if it’s informed by unresolved feelings toward your mother. You mentioned, in passing, that she considered placing you for adoption. That’s a profound attachment wound. It makes sense that you’d be highly sensitized to stories about children who were placed, or lost, or… moved between families.”
The word “moved” lands like a stone.
“Are you saying I care about those kids because I’m damaged?” I ask.
“I’m saying you care because you’re empathic,” he answers. “But empathy without boundaries can lead you to over-identify. To see your own story everywhere, even where it doesn’t belong.”
“And where does it belong?” I ask.
He leans forward, resting his elbows lightly on his knees. “In a space where it’s safe to unpack it,” he says. “Ideally with someone who isn’t part of the family power structure.”
“You mean not here,” I say.
“I mean in an ongoing therapeutic relationship of your choosing,” he says. “If you’d like, I can recommend colleagues. In the meantime, I can offer a preliminary impression to your family that your distress is understandable given your history, and that what you need most is support and perhaps a bit of distance from complex legal matters.”
There it is—the offer disguised as protection.
“So you’ll tell them I’m… what?” I ask. “Stressed? Confused? Too emotional to weigh in on ‘complex legal matters’ like a secret trust for a second daughter?”
He hesitates just long enough to confirm the shape of it. “I’ll tell them you’re under significant emotional strain,” he says, choosing each word. “That it would be unwise for anyone to put additional pressure on you to interpret documents or events. That pushing you could exacerbate existing anxiety and mistrust.”
“Which conveniently makes anything I say about their behavior suspect,” I reply.
“It makes it contextual,” he says. “If later disagreements arise, they can remember that your perception is coming through this current filter.”
I feel the air thicken, the room shrinking around us. The smell of old books and polished wood mixes with peppermint tea cooling on the side table, a thin skin forming on top.
“Tell me honestly,” I say. “Did Evelyn ask you to evaluate me?”
“She asked me to make sure you weren’t in immediate danger,” he says. “Self-harm, psychosis, that sort of thing.”
“And?” I press.
“I don’t see those red flags,” he says. “I see a woman under strain who might benefit from decentering her in-laws’ narrative from her own wellbeing.”
“Decentering,” I repeat. “Is that a clinical term for ‘shut up about the secrets’?”
He sighs, just a little. “You’re very sharp, Hannah,” he says. “That’s both your gift and your vulnerability. My concern is that, without support, you might escalate confrontations in ways that look irrational from the outside. And in a family this visible, looking irrational can have… consequences.”
Consequences like being institutionalized on the hill, your name reduced to a case number in a hospital that smells like bleach and mercy, while the donor wall downstairs praises the Mercers’ commitment to mental health.
I straighten in my chair. “Then maybe I should start my own file,” I say. “Before everyone else finishes writing theirs.”
His pen stills.
“What do you mean?” he asks.
“Nothing,” I say. “Just thinking out loud.”
He studies me for a few seconds, then closes the notebook with a soft thump. “We’re at time,” he says. “Thank you for being so candid. I’ll share broad strokes with your family, but not specifics. Our conversation is confidential within reasonable limits.”
“Reasonable limits,” I echo. “Like if I start talking too loudly about the wrong things.”
He doesn’t rise to the bait. “If you’d like referrals in the city, I can email you a list,” he says instead. “I genuinely believe you deserve a space that’s just for you.”
“So do I,” I say, standing.
The hallway outside the library smells faintly of lemon polish and sea air leaking through old window frames. Evelyn and Daniel sit on the upholstered bench beneath the framed painting of the cliffs, the one where the water looks beautiful until you notice the rocks at the base.
Evelyn stands the second she sees us. “Well?” she asks, eyes bright with rehearsed worry. “How did it go?”
My tongue feels thick. Every possible answer writes another line in whatever report he carries.
“Fine,” I say carefully. “We talked.”
“She’s very insightful,” Dr. Lang says before she can press. “This is a woman who’s spent a long time caring for others. That takes a toll.”
Daniel searches my face. “Do you think it helped?” he asks. His hands twist together, knuckles pale.
“It helped me understand some dynamics,” I say. “Yes.”
Evelyn presses a hand to her chest, relief softening her features. “I’m so glad,” she says. “I just want you to feel safe here, Hannah.”
Behind her, the Mercer crest is carved into the crown molding, the abstract wave pattern rolling over the doorway like a brand.
Dr. Lang consults his watch. “I’ll send you a brief summary of my impressions,” he tells her. “Strictly high-level. I’ll also email some recommendations for ongoing support.”
“Thank you,” she says. “You’ve been incredibly generous with your time.”
I hear it click in place: brief summary, impressions, recommendations. Somewhere in a secure folder, a line is about to appear under my name, flattening everything I said into phrases like hypervigilant and mistrustful of family.
“I’ll walk you out,” Daniel offers, standing.
“No need,” Dr. Lang says. “I know the way. It was a pleasure meeting you, Hannah. Really.” His gaze stays on mine a fraction too long, regret flickering there. He’s not a monster; he’s just part of the ecosystem. Another professional who believes that good deeds balance the ledger.
He leaves with quiet footsteps, his satchel brushing the baseboard, his notes tucked against his side like a verdict.
Evelyn steps closer to me, fingers hovering near my arm without quite touching. “I hope you don’t feel ambushed,” she says softly. “I only worry because I love you. This family loves you.”
Love and harm sharing the same hands.
I look past her, through the tall window at the end of the hall. The hospital on the hill gleams in the winter light, foundation wing jutting out like a glass promise. I can almost smell the disinfectant from here, threaded through the salty air and faint woodsmoke from town.
“I’m fine,” I say. “But thank you for your… concern.”
Her eyes narrow a hair, then relax. “If you ever feel overwhelmed, let me know,” she says. “We have resources. You don’t have to carry everything by yourself.”
Resources. Therapists, lawyers, PR teams, an entire apparatus designed to define what’s real.
In my room, later, I open my laptop and stare at the blank document on the screen. My fingers hover over the keys.
If Evelyn is opening a file on my mind, I need my own record—of stairs and trust documents, of police reports and boat parades, of paper children whose names only exist under her crest.
The question that thrums under my skin as I start to type isn’t whether she can convince the town I’m unstable.
It’s whether I can get the truth on paper fast enough that, when she does, someone will still read what I’ve written and recognize it as sanity.