Chapter 6 - Boundaries

Dr. Aaliyah Jackson sat motionless in her car, the trailhead shrinking in the rearview mirror as dawn spread itself thin across the sky.

Her hands rested on the steering wheel, but she wasn’t gripping it anymore. Her knuckles had gone white during the drive back, though she hadn’t noticed.

She couldn’t stop thinking about Dwayne.

Not just what he said.

How he said it.
Measured. Calm. Unapologetic.
Like he had sorted through every version of guilt and decided none of them fit.

She should have told him to leave. She should have drawn the line. Therapist and patient, no blurred roles, no secrets exchanged outside the office, no early-morning confessions on jogging trails.

But she didn’t.

Because something in his voice, in his eyes, had asked for more than therapy.

It had asked for understanding.

And worse, it had received it.

She let out a slow breath and rested her forehead against the steering wheel. Her gold wedding ring tapped lightly against the leather. The sound echoed in her ears like a judgment.

Then it hit her again, the weight of what he said.

He confessed to murder.

Not hinted. Not danced around it. He confessed. Plain and clear.

She had sat across from a man who admitted to killing someone, not in self-defense, not in a moment of chaos, but as a calculated act of revenge.

And yet, she hadn’t flinched.

She hadn’t recoiled. She hadn’t gasped, or lectured him, or reached for her phone to call it in. Her mind had gone clinical for a moment, cataloging trauma response, PTSD, fractured identity. But underneath that, something else had stirred.

What kind of man does that?
And how far would he go to protect the people he loves?

That was the part she couldn’t shake.

It wasn’t just what he did, it was the why.

There was a twisted logic to it. Not justice. Not morality. But something ancient and tribal, like Dwayne had made peace with the part of himself society tries to strangle. The part that says, If you hurt mine, I hurt you.

And the part of her that had spent years living by rules, as a wife, a professional, a woman, felt something dangerously close to admiration.

That terrified her.

Not just because she should have been outraged.

But because some dark, buried place in her chest whispered:

You understood it.
You might have done the same.

What kind of man does that?

And deeper:
Would anyone ever do that for me?

The thought was quiet, but it sliced through her like a razor.

Would Julian?

She imagined her husband’s face, the dependable kindness, the steady tone, the way he folded laundry without being asked and kissed her temple before bed. He was a good man.

But would he kill for her?

Would he break the world for her?

She knew the answer before she finished the question.
No.
He would file a report. Call the police. Talk about consequences and healing.

But Dwayne?

He already had. For his sister.

He had crossed that impossible line and never looked back. And he had told her, her, not because he wanted forgiveness, but because he knew she would understand.

And she had. God help her.

She had.

Aaliyah finally sat upright, gripping the wheel again, not for control, but to feel something solid.

She couldn’t keep this inside.

She couldn’t tell anyone.

She was trapped in the in-between, the space where silence protects the guilty, and truth destroys the innocent.

Her mind raced through possible responses.

Report him? And destroy him?

Say nothing? And risk being complicit?

She knew the ethics. The codes. The obligations. Every clinician is trained for the what ifs. But no textbook prepared her for this, not when your patient looks you in the eye and hands you the truth like a wound still bleeding.

Not when you want to stop the bleeding instead of dressing it up and walking away.

A notification buzzed on her phone. A calendar reminder.

8:15 AM, Couples Session with the LeClairs.

She let out a bitter, almost laugh. Two clients who spent twenty minutes arguing about text tone and dish towels. The kind of hurt that could be fixed if they’d just listen.

She blinked at the time. Already late.

With a sudden surge, she pulled into traffic and merged onto the highway. Her body moved on autopilot, but her mind was still back at the trail, still watching Dwayne speak in that grave, deliberate tone.

Still wondering if she had been speaking with Dwayne, or with Knox.

Still asking questions she had no right to ask.

---

Later That Evening

The house was too quiet when she got home.

Julian wasn’t in the kitchen. Not at the dining table. She heard faint movement, then found him in the living room, one AirPod in, half-watching a muted news broadcast while scrolling his phone.

He didn’t look up right away.

When he finally did, his eyes flicked toward her, then back to his screen.

“You’re late.”

“I had back-to-back sessions,” she replied, slipping off her shoes by the door.

He didn’t ask who. He never did anymore.

“You eat?” he asked, still not looking up.

“I’m fine.”

“There’s some takeout in the fridge from the Thai place.”

She nodded, then paused in the doorway.

“Julian…”

He sighed like she had interrupted something important. “Yeah?”

“Have you ever… wanted to hurt someone?”

That got his attention. He lowered the phone slightly. “What kind of question is that?”

Her voice stayed even. “Not anger. Not impulse. I mean really wanted to. Because they hurt someone you love.”

Julian raised an eyebrow. “Aaliyah… are you okay?”

She smiled a little, small, tight, artificial. “Just a question.”

He stared at her for a second longer, then shrugged.

“No. That’s not how I solve problems.”

Then, just like that, he put the AirPod back in.

Conversation over.

She stood there for a moment, watching him scroll. Then she turned away, something hollow cracking open inside her ribcage.