The Sham

The audio recording started just like this.

“My ability to manipulate people sometimes scares me. I don’t do it on purpose, but it happens sometimes.” Dr. Ellison’s voice followed, calm and measured.

“Do you feel like you’ve ever manipulated me?”

Mallory hesitated just long enough to notice it.

“No.” She frowned. “At least… I don’t think so.”

“Why is that?” Dr. Ellison asked. “Why do you feel the need to manipulate everyone else except me?”

A flicker of irritation passed through Mallory before she smoothed it away.

“I didn’t say I do it to everyone else,” she replied, drawing out the word everyone just enough to sharpen the distinction. “I said my ability to do it scares me.”

Silence settled between them.

Then the session timer shattered it with its shrill alarm.

Mallory watched Dr. Ellison’s face, waiting for something—a raised eyebrow, concern, disappointment, curiosity. Anything that suggested her confession had landed. Instead, Dr. Ellison only offered the same restrained smile she always wore, as if nothing Mallory said could disturb her equilibrium.

She crossed the room, switched off the timer, and returned to her chair.

“You know,” Dr. Ellison said quietly, “I worry about you. More than you seem to believe.” She paused, studying Mallory with an infuriatingly patient expression.

“Contrary to what you think.”

Mallory barely heard the rest.

Mallory.

The way Dr. Ellison said her name made it sound softer than it deserved to be, almost affectionate. It lingered in the room longer than the words themselves.

For one reckless moment, Mallory wondered if it would be possible to fall in love with her therapist. The thought embarrassed her almost as quickly as it came. So she did what she always did. She admired her instead. 

The room fell quiet. Then came the soft click of the recorder. A tiny red light blinked once before disappearing. The session was over.

Mallory had replayed that sound more times than she cared to admit. It echoed through her mind now as she stood outside the clinic a week later, phone pressed to her ear while the automated voicemail repeated itself.\

“We apologize for the inconvenience. All appointments for this week have been canceled. If you are experiencing a mental health emergency…”

She ended the call before the message could finish. Canceled? Several questions came to mind as she lowered at the familiar brick building across the parking lot. The blinds were drawn over the front windows, and the reception desk beyond the glass sat dark and empty.

That wasn’t right. Dr. Ellison never canceled. Not without warning.  Mallory checked her email again.

Your appointment has been canceled.

No explanation.

She refreshed the page.

Nothing.

Then the patient portal.

Nothing.

A knot tightened low in her stomach. It wasn’t just her appointment. Every available time slot for the week had vanished. She tried the front desk next.

Straight to voicemail.

Her thumb hovered over Dr. Ellison’s contact before she stopped herself. Therapists weren’t supposed to give patients their personal numbers.

Dr. Ellison had never made exceptions. So what the hell was going on? The answer found her before she had the chance to find it herself. She had barely settled onto her couch when a breaking news alert flashed across her phone.

WORLD-RENOWNED THERAPIST AND BESTSELLING AUTHOR DR. NIA ELLISON FOUND DEAD AT 47.

Mallory stared at the screen.

No.

Her thumb moved on instinct, opening article after article, each one repeating the same impossible story.

Dr. Nia Ellison had been found shortly after dawn in a service alley behind a popular bar called ‘The Bark’ Police believed she had been attacked sometime after midnight. She had suffered fourteen stab wounds and bled to death before anyone found her.

Fourteen.

The number lodged itself in Mallory’s mind.

She kept reading, hoping one article would contradict the last.

None of them did.

Within the hour she was texting former group therapy members, searching forums where Ellison’s patients gathered, scrolling through news reports, podcasts, and social media posts with frantic precision. Rumors spread faster than facts. Some claimed it was a robbery. Others insisted she had been stalked for months. One anonymous commenter swore they had heard screaming.

No one actually knew.

By sunset, Mallory found herself standing behind the police tape at the mouth of the alley where Dr. Ellison had died.

The pavement had already been scrubbed clean.

The reporters were gone.

The only evidence that anything terrible had happened was a cluster of wilted flowers, flickering candles, and handwritten notes left by strangers who believed Dr. Ellison had changed their lives.

Mallory searched the alley as if the walls themselves might offer an explanation.

They didn’t. She left with no answers. Only one undeniable truth.

Dr. Nia Ellison was dead.

An unfamiliar ache settled somewhere beneath her ribs. My heart hurts. The realization rattled her. She hadn’t felt something so immediate, so painfully human, since the accident. She wasn’t sure which frightened her more—that Dr. Ellison was gone, that her death had made Mallory feel anything at all. More than anything, Mallory needed therapy.

Not because Dr. Ellison was dead.

Because everything Dr. Ellison’s death had unearthed refused to stay buried.

The grief she’d spent years outrunning had returned with a vengeance, dragging the accident, the nightmares, and every memory she’d carefully boxed away back into the light. And layered over all of it was a newer grief—the strange, disorienting ache of losing someone who, at times, seemed to understand her better than she understood herself.

A week later, the patient portal finally came back online. There was a message waiting.

Subject: Welcome

Hello,

My name is Dr. Simone Whitfield, and I’ll be taking over Dr. Nia Ellison’s caseload.

I know many of you are grieving, and no one expects that grief to disappear overnight. Please know you won’t have to start from the beginning. Dr. Ellison kept thoughtful clinical notes, and with your permission, I’ll use them to help continue the work you’ve already done together.

If, after a few sessions, you feel I’m not the right therapist for you, I’ll gladly help you find someone who is.

Until then, thank you for your patience. I hope this week is kinder to you than the last.

Warmly,

Dr. Simone Whitfield

How quick. Just like that. One warm body vacated the chair. Another filled it. The world had an unsettling way of replacing people as though they had never left. Mallory closed the message but didn’t delete it.

What was the alternative? Keep spiraling? Keep chasing a murderer who had left behind nothing but speculation and police tape? Maybe this was where the investigation ended.

Or maybe this was where it actually began. She scheduled the earliest appointment she could find. 10:00 a.m.

The confirmation email arrived instantly. The next morning, she found herself sitting in a room that looked almost identical to Dr. Ellison’s.

The same muted walls. The same bookshelf. Even the same digital recorder resting on the table between the chairs. Its red light blinked once. Then the recording began.

The recorder’s red light blinked once.

“Session one,” Dr. Simone Whitfield said. “Ten a.m.”

She folded one leg over the other, notebook resting untouched on her lap.

“So, Mallory. I’m sure you’ve already read my email, but introductions are better in person. My name is Dr. Simone Whitfield. My doctorate is in psychological trauma, and for the past twelve years I’ve worked primarily with survivors of grief, abuse, and catastrophic loss.”

She offered a small smile.

“I’m no Dr. Ellison, but I hope I can do right by the work the two of you started.”

A laugh escaped Mallory’s mouth. It wasn’t loud. Just brazen.

Dr. Whitfield blinked.

“…Did I say something funny?”

Mallory pressed her lips together, but another laugh slipped through. “I’m sorry.”

“I don’t think you are.”

“I’m not.”

The therapist nodded as though she’d expected that answer.

“What amused you?”

Mallory leaned back in the chair.

“You said you’re not Dr. Ellison.”

“That’s true.”

“Of course it’s true.”

She looked around the office. Same walls. Same bookshelves. Same recorder. Different woman.

“No one is.”

Silence.

“And that’s funny?”

“A little.”

“Why?”

Mallory shrugged. “Because it feels like she was sitting in that chair yesterday.”

Her eyes drifted toward Simone.

“And now…”

She looked the therapist up and down. “…they replaced her with someone…cut-rate.”

The sentence hung in the room.

Dr. Whitfield inhaled through her nose.

“I won’t sit here and let you denigrate me, Mallory.”

She glanced over her notes.

“There are more important things for us to talk about.”

Mallory tilted her head.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Neither of them spoke for several seconds. Finally Simone opened the folder resting beside her.

“I’d like to start with your parents.”

Mallory froze.

“…Excuse me?”

“Your parents.”

The words landed with surgical precision.

“Three years ago you were driving home from your brother’s college graduation. It had been raining. A pickup truck crossed the center line. You swerved.”

Mallory’s jaw tightened.

“You don’t have to—”

“The guardrail gave way.”

“…Stop.”

“The vehicle rolled twice.”

“I said stop.”

“Your parents and your older brother died at the scene.”

Mallory couldn’t breathe.

She wasn’t in the office anymore. Rain hammered against the windshield. Her mother’s scream. The crushing sound of twisting metal. Gasoline.

Blood.

Someone shouting for help.

Then—

Nothing.

Her fingernails dug into the armrests until her knuckles cracked.

Simone’s voice softened.

“You’ve spent three years telling yourself you killed them.”

Mallory stared.

“…How do you know that?”

“You were the only survivor.”

“I know that.”

“You still call yourself a murderer.”

“I said—”

“Even though every investigator concluded you weren’t at fault.”

“I said I know that.”

“You don’t believe them.”

The words hit harder than they should have.

Because they were true.

Mallory swallowed.

Dr. Ellison used to say the exact same thing.

“You confuse responsibility with control.”

Mallory’s head snapped upward.

“What?”

“You confuse responsibility with control.”

Her pulse quickened.

“I never said that.”

“No,” Simone replied gently.

“You’ve said many versions of it.”

Mallory stared.

Dr. Ellison had repeated that sentence dozens of times. Word for word. She leaned forward.

“…Where did you hear that?”

“It’s in your file.”

“No.”

Simone looked confused.

“It is.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“It was documented after one of your sessions.”

Mallory felt heat rising into her face.

Another sentence followed.

“You carry guilt because guilt gives the illusion that, if you’d made one different decision, everyone would still be alive.”

Mallory’s stomach sank.

Another one.

Another sentence.

Another phrase.

Every one of them belonged to Dr. Ellison.

Not similar.

Exact.

Her breathing became uneven.

“How many notes did she leave?”

Simone frowned.

“A substantial amount.”

“How much?”

“I don’t think that’s productive.”

“How much?”

“Enough to understand your history.”

“No.”

Mallory shook her head.

“No.”

Her voice cracked.

“You're possessed.”

Simone remained still.

“No.”

Mallory stood so abruptly the chair skidded backward across the floor.

“Those weren’t clinical notes.”

“They were.”

“No one writes like that.”

“They do when they’re trying to help another clinician continue treatment.”

“No.”'

Mallory pointed toward the folder.

“Those are her words.”

“Yes.”

“Every single one.”

“Some of them.”

“They’re hers.”

“They are.”

The room suddenly felt too small.

Too warm.

Too familiar.

It was as if Dr. Ellison hadn’t died at all.

As if someone had climbed into her skin and was speaking with her voice. Mallory’s chest tightened.

“Stop talking like her.”

Simone blinked.

“I don’t think I—”

“Stop.”

“I wasn’t trying to imitate any—”

“I said STOP!”

The shout echoed against the walls.

Neither woman moved. After a long moment, Dr. Whitfield reached toward the recorder. “I’m going to stop the recording for now.” The red light disappeared with a quiet click. Silence rushed into the room. Mallory was still standing. Her hands trembled.

She looked less angry than terrified.

“You know too much about me, when I know nothing about you at all.”

Dr. Whitfield folded her hands together.3

“I know what Dr. Ellison believed was necessary for your treatment.”

Mallory slowly shook her head.

“No.”

Her voice was barely audible.

“You know things she never would’ve written down.”

The shock that seized Mallory propelled her toward the door before Dr. Whitfield could gather another sentence.

“Mal—”

The office door slammed shut behind her with enough force to rattle the picture frames lining the hallway. By the time she reached the parking lot, her pulse was pounding too loudly for coherent thought. How does she know?

The question looped through her mind with relentless precision.

Not the accident.

Not the guilt.

Those details could have been written in Dr. Ellison’s notes.

But the way she’d said them.

The pauses.

The phrasing.

The sentences that belonged to Dr. Ellison alone.

No.

Something wasn’t right.

The internet had become the first stop for anyone desperate enough to chase the truth.

Mallory opened her laptop.

Simone Whitfield.

Search.

Hundreds of results appeared.

A real estate agent in Seattle.

A pediatric nurse in Atlanta.

An architect in Chicago.

Different women.

Same name.

Then—

Dr. Simone Whitfield, Ph.D.

Finally,

She clicked.

The website was polished enough to inspire confidence. A professional headshot. A short biography. Degrees listed beneath her name.

Bachelor of Science in Psychology — Columbia University

Master of Science in Clinical Psychology

Ph.D. in Psychological Trauma

Mallory frowned.

It was… sparse.

No awards.

No publications.

No interviews.

Nothing that suggested a clinician whose credentials justified inheriting one of the most recognizable therapy practices in New York.

She gave Whitfield the benefit of the doubt.

Maybe the information lived somewhere else. She searched the university’s alumni directory.

Nothing.

The graduate database.

Faculty archives..

The doctoral registry..

Her fingers slowed over the keyboard.

Hold on…

She searched for Whitfield’s dissertation. Every doctoral graduate had one. Nothing. Again. Nothing.

She tried variations of her name. Middle initials. Quotation marks. Different databases.

No dissertation.

No faculty biography.

No conference presentations.

No psychology license.

No published research.

A cold unease settled over her. Either Dr. Simone Whitfield was the most invisible psychologist in the country… or she wasn’t a psychologist at all. Mallory widened the search.

Not Dr. Simone Whitfield.

Just—

Simone Marie Whitfield.

One result surfaced near the bottom of the page.

A county court filing.

Her breath caught.

The booking photograph matched the woman sitting across from her less than two hours earlier. *Two years ago, Simone Marie Whitfield had been arrested after posing as a hospital employee to gain unauthorized access to confidential patient records.

Identity fraud.

The charges had later been dismissed on procedural grounds.

Mallory leaned back from the screen.

Her stomach twisted.

She wasn’t a therapist.

She never had been.

So how had she ended up in Dr. Ellison’s office?

More importantly…

Who had handed her the keys?

Mallory began planning her next move before she had even closed the laptop.

Confrontation.

There was no room left for hesitation. No more searching, no more digging through databases, no more pretending she could reason her way around what was sitting directly in front of her.

Simone Whitfield was a fraud.

By 9:30 that night, she was waiting across from Simone’s house.

The front door opened. Simone checked the mail, then crossed toward the trash.

Mallory followed.

“So you’re a sham.”

Simone glanced back.

“No. I’m incontestable.”

“No dissertation. No publications. No clinical history.”

Simone closed the trash lid.

“And yet,” she said, “I was sitting in Dr. Ellison’s office the day after her death.”

Simone smiled.

“I wanted what she had.”

“Her life?”

“Her understanding.”

She stepped closer.

“No. Nia had degrees. Licenses. Paper proving she belonged in that chair. But credentials are costumes, Mallory. Empathy isn’t. Intelligence isn’t. Intuition certainly isn’t.”

Her smile faded.

“I was better at being her than she ever was.”

Mallory’s stomach tightened.

“So you stabbed her.”

Simone’s expression barely changed.

“Just like you killed your parents.”

Mallory’s temple twitched.

“No.”

“You were there.”

“I wasn’t.”

“Don’t you remember?”

Reality altered.

Neon bleeding across dark windows.

Black fabric against her skin.

Ice knocking against a glass.

Vanilla.

Perfume.

Music vibrating through the floor.

Mallory’s breath caught.

A woman’s voice.

Mallory.

She shut her eyes.

Another fragment.

Nia.

Alive.

Standing in front of her.

Then a flash of movement.

A hand.

A sharp metallic smell.

“Please…”

Simone watched her carefully.

“You remember.”

Mallory opened her eyes, but the world had changed.

The memories wouldn’t come together. They only surfaced in pieces—sensations without context, images without explanation.

And then—

The night bled beneath her, crimson pooling where memory refused to.

That was all.

Her stomach turned.

She had been there.

Not as a witness.

Not as a patient.

She had been there.