Double Deception

Chapter 12: A Fragile Proposal

The Email

Three days passed without another visit. No calls. No messages. I started to believe the silence might last.

Then, at 3:17 a.m., my phone buzzed.

It was an email. From Emily.

Subject: A Plan for Us.

The timestamp made my blood run cold.

I hesitated before opening it.

The message began formally, almost businesslike:

Alex,
I've scheduled weekly sessions with Dr. Reiss starting Monday. She's confident this is the first step toward reintegration — her word, not mine. I know this won't be easy for you, but if you're willing, she can see us both for couples therapy as well.

That word — reintegration — leapt off the screen.

I scrolled down. The message continued:

I've attached her contact details and some resources on trust rebuilding. I'm not asking for forgiveness yet, only the chance to earn it. Please believe that I'm doing this for both of us.

Then, at the bottom of the message, beneath her name, a single line stood out — written in italics, as though it didn't belong.

You'll see me soon.

My heart stuttered.

That was the same phrase Emma had used in one of her texts months ago — the night everything began.

I checked the sender address. It was Emily's, but the metadata didn't make sense. The email was time-stamped for 3:17 a.m. — the exact time Emma's reflection had appeared in my recording days earlier.

A coincidence, maybe. But I didn't believe in coincidences anymore.

The Therapist's Call

Later that morning, my phone rang again. Unknown number.

"Hello?"

"Mr. Turner?" A calm, professional voice. "This is Dr. Valerie Reiss. Emily mentioned she reached out to you about couples sessions."

I felt a pulse of unease. "She did."

"I wanted to personally invite you to join her next appointment. Emily's progress has been promising. She's shown remarkable self-awareness lately."

The words "remarkable self-awareness" made me uneasy.

"Doctor," I said carefully, "have you noticed any... inconsistencies? Between her sessions?"

A pause. "Inconsistencies?"

"Changes in voice, tone, behavior," I said. "You said she's integrating — do you mean Emma?"

Dr. Reiss hesitated. "You've read her case file?"

"No, but I've lived it."

She sighed. "Emma is a projection. A construct Emily developed to compartmentalize trauma. But that construct has become autonomous in ways we don't fully understand. Our goal is to merge them — to make Emma obsolete."

"Obsolete," I repeated. "You mean erase her."

"If necessary," she said. "For Emily's safety."

I hesitated. "And mine?"

Another pause. "That depends," Dr. Reiss said softly. "On whether Emma still sees you as part of her."

The line clicked dead before I could reply.

The Visit (Again)

That evening, another knock echoed through my apartment.

This time, I didn't rush to the door. I watched through the peephole.

Emily stood there again — or at least someone who looked like her.

Her posture was different. Her head tilted just slightly to one side, a smile ghosting on her lips.

"Alex," she called softly. "You didn't reply to my email."

My pulse quickened.

"Emily?" I asked.

She laughed — low, melodic. "Who else would it be?"

The voice was familiar and wrong all at once.

"I think you know the answer to that," I said quietly.

Her smile widened. "You sound scared. Don't be. I just wanted to talk."

I didn't open the door.

"You don't need to be afraid of me," she murmured through the wood. "You've already seen me, remember?"

My breath caught.

"I'm not doing this," I said. "If you want to talk, you can do it in therapy. With Dr. Reiss."

Silence. Then, softly:

"She doesn't understand me like you do."

The temperature in the hallway seemed to drop. My breath fogged faintly in front of the peephole.

"Go home, Emily."

"I am home," she whispered.

When I looked again, she was gone.

The Shadow in the Reflection

I didn't sleep that night. I sat on the couch, lights off, staring at the dark screen of my laptop.

At 3:17 a.m., the reflection in the black glass shifted.

It wasn't mine.

It was her.

Emily — or Emma — smiling faintly, eyes bright in the dark.

And then she spoke, her voice barely more than a breath.

"You can go to therapy if it makes you feel safe. But tell me, Alex — who do you think you'll be sitting across from when you get there?"

The screen flickered once, then went dark.

Outside, somewhere in the hallway, I heard the faint echo of three slow, deliberate knocks.