Page 16 of In Her Path

Dr. Samantha White’s familiar office welcomed Piper—the bookshelves lining two walls, the window overlooking the hospital gardens, the arrangement of furniture designed for conversation rather than interrogation. Dr. White herself sat at her desk, making notes in a file, but she put aside her work immediately as Piper entered.

“Piper,” she said, rising to her feet with a smile. “I’m glad you could make it today.”

“Frank drove me here,” Piper said, moving to the armchair near Dr. White’s desk.

Dr. White took her own seat in a chair positioned beside rather than opposite Piper—a deliberate arrangement that always made Piper feel like an equal rather than a patient. At sixty-five, Dr. White moved with the energy of someone much younger, her silver-cropped hair and tortoiseshell glasses lending her an air of thoughtful authority.

“How have you been feeling?” Dr. White asked, her voice gentle.

The simple question was loaded with layers of meaning. Piper stared at the carpet, suddenly unable to meet the psychiatrist’s gaze.

“They’re gone,” she said finally. “The voices. They’ve been completely silent since last week.” She looked up. “And I don’t know if that’s a good thing or not.”

Dr. White’s expression remained thoughtful, neither surprised nor alarmed. “That must be unsettling,” she said. “After so many years of having them as companions—even though that was sometimes difficult.”

“They’re not really great company, but I keep thinking they should be useful. My sister uses her own ability to help solve criminal cases.”

Dr. White's expression softened with understanding. "Yes, Jenna and I have talked about her dreams. And I don't question their reality—I accept them as genuine experiences that clearly provide her with information she couldn't otherwise access."

“And my voices were just starting to do that, too. To help.” Piper fell silent for a moment, then continued. “I thought maybe my problem is the medication. I’m thinking about quitting it.”

“You don’t know whether the medication is the problem,” Dr. White pointed out. “The medication’s purpose is to help you maintain your sense of self—to give you control over whether and when you engage with these experiences.”

“But they’re gone,” Piper insisted, frustration in her voice. “I could be using them to help Jenna, but instead, I’m just...empty.”

“You’re feeling useless,” Dr. White observed. “Excluded, perhaps?”

The question hit uncomfortably close to home. “Jenna started working on a new murder case this morning,” Piper said. “But she wouldn’t even let me near the crime scene. When I asked if I could help, she practically shut me down.”

Dr. White studied her for a long moment. “I understand your frustration,” she said finally. “But it might be helpful to remember what happened when you stopped taking your medication.”

Piper's stomach clenched. The memory surfaced unbidden of a doll that had appeared to her—a doll named Loyalynne, so vivid that Piper thought she was real. Loyalynne's honeyed voice offered understanding, offered power, separating Piper from everyone who loved her.

“Loyalynne happened.”

“And before that? When you first started hearing voices as a teenager?”

The question sent Piper back twenty years, to her bedroom with its posters and books and the window she’d used to escape. The voices had been overwhelming then—only occasionally voices of the dead, more often nameless, disembodied spirits, a terrifying chorus that convinced her she was dangerous, a threat to her family. They’d driven her away from everything she knew and loved, into a life of wandering and constant fear.

“It was bad,” she said slowly. “They frightened me. But the last time I heard from them, they’d changed. They said they wanted to help. I believed them. But now they’re gone.”

“Have you considered,” Dr. White suggested, “that the silence you’re experiencing might not be because of your medication? That perhaps the voices have a reason to stay away?”

The idea had never occurred to Piper. “Why would they do that?”

“I don’t know,” Dr. White admitted. “But I have a thought. Would you be willing to try something for me?”

Piper eyed her suspiciously. “What kind of something?”

“A simple meditation exercise,” Dr. White explained. “Nothing invasive or difficult. Just a way of creating a quiet space where you might be able to reach out to the voices—to ask them directly why they’ve been silent.”

“I’m not sure I want to do that.”

“I understand,” Dr. White said. “It’s entirely your choice. But if you’re concerned about why they’ve gone silent, the most direct approach might be to simply ask.”

Piper hesitated, weighing fear against curiosity. For twenty years, the voices had come unbidden, intruding into her thoughts, disrupting her life. Now, faced with the possibility of initiating contact herself, she felt oddly reluctant—as if crossing that line might somehow make her as unstable as she’d been at sixteen.

“What would I have to do?” she asked finally.