Sheriff Galpin looked like a man who'd forgotten how to sleep.
He sat across from me in my office, back rigid, hands clasped tightly in his lap, the kind of posture that suggested he was holding himself together through sheer force of will. His uniform was immaculate, his badge polished, everything about him screaming control and authority. But his eyes were hollow, haunted by something I knew all too well; the ghost of his dead wife, and the fear that he was losing his son too.
"I appreciate you seeing me, Dr. Kinbott," he said, his voice gruff with disuse. "I know you must be busy preparing for the semester."
"Not at all, Sheriff. I'm here to help however I can." I kept my tone warm but professional, the way Valerie would have. The way a therapist who wasn't actively trying to save her own life while preventing multiple murders would sound. "Principal Weems mentioned your son might benefit from some support."
His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "Tyler's been through a lot this past year. Losing his mother the way we did..." He trailed off, and I watched grief and anger war across his features. "Francoise was murdered by an outcast. An outcast who was never caught, never brought to justice. Tyler saw what that thing did to her, and I don't think he's ever going to recover from it."
I kept my expression neutral, but internally I was recalibrating everything I thought I knew. In the show, they'd been deliberately vague about Francoise Galpin's death, just enough information to establish that Tyler had trauma, not enough to understand the full picture. But listening to Sheriff Galpin now, I could hear the way he said "that thing," the venom in his voice when he mentioned outcasts. This wasn't just grief. This was rage, barely contained, poisoning everything it touched.
And Tyler had absorbed all of it. The anger, the hatred, the certainty that outcasts were monsters who deserved to be destroyed. Laurel had found him pre-programmed with exactly the prejudices she needed.
"That must have been devastating for your whole family," I said carefully. "Losing someone to violence is traumatic enough, but when there's no resolution, no justice, it compounds the grief."
"There was no justice because this town protects outcasts over normies," Galpin said, and there it was; the bitterness that had probably been festering for years before his wife's death. "Nevermore Academy brings in hundreds of these kids every year, and we're just supposed to accept them. Welcome them. Pretend they're not dangerous."
I nodded, neither agreeing nor disagreeing, just letting him talk. This was important. Understanding Sheriff Galpin's worldview would help me understand Tyler's, would help me figure out how deeply the anti-outcast conditioning went.
"You mentioned Tyler saw what happened," I said gently. "That's a significant trauma for anyone, especially a teenager. Has he been able to talk about it at all?"
"No." The word came out flat, defeated. "He won't talk to me about anything that matters. We used to be close, before Francoise died. Now it's like living with a stranger. He goes to work, comes home, locks himself in his room. The only person he seems to open up to is Marilyn Thornhill."
My pulse quickened. "The botany teacher at Nevermore?"
"Yeah. She's been..." He paused, seeming to search for words. "She's been very kind to Tyler. Stops by the Weathervane regularly, talks to him, shows interest in his life. She told me she's worried about him, thought professional help might be good." His expression hardened slightly. "Which I guess is code for 'your parenting isn't enough.'"
"That's not what it means," I said quickly. "Parents aren't supposed to be their children's therapists. Sometimes teenagers need someone outside the family system to confide in, someone who doesn't carry all the complicated history and emotions that family relationships involve. It's not a failure on your part."
Some of the tension left his shoulders. "Marilyn said something similar. She's very understanding. I can see why Tyler trusts her."
I bet she was understanding. I bet she listened with rapt attention to every word Tyler said about his mother's death, his father's distance, his confusion and anger and grief. I bet she validated every dark feeling, encouraged every bitter thought, slowly cultivating the rage that would eventually fuel his transformations.
"How long has Ms. Thornhill been in Tyler's life?" I asked, trying to make it sound like casual professional inquiry rather than desperate intelligence gathering.
"She started coming to the Weathervane a few months ago, maybe March or April? Said she was new to the area, looking for good coffee." Galpin's expression softened slightly. "She and Tyler just seemed to click. She treats him like he matters, you know? Asks about his interests, remembers details about his life. That's more than most people do."
March or April. So Laurel had been working on Tyler for months already, long before the semester started. She'd positioned herself carefully, built trust gradually, made herself indispensable. By the time I entered the picture, the foundation was already laid.
"And you're comfortable with Tyler's relationship with Ms. Thornhill?" I asked. "No concerns about appropriate boundaries?"
Galpin frowned slightly. "Should I be concerned? She's a teacher, she's being kind to a kid who needs kindness. What's inappropriate about that?"
Nothing, on the surface. That was the insidious part. Laurel had been perfectly appropriate in every visible way. The grooming was all psychological, all subtle shifts in thinking and feeling that would be impossible to prove without access to Tyler's internal experience.
"Not at all," I said smoothly. "I just like to understand the full picture of a potential client's support system. It sounds like Ms. Thornhill has been a positive presence in Tyler's life."
"She has," Galpin said firmly. "She's one of the few people Tyler actually talks to. If it weren't for her, I don't know where he'd be right now."
Probably in a much better place, I thought grimly. Probably grieving normally, healing gradually, becoming a functioning adult instead of a weapon. But I couldn't say that.
"Tell me more about Tyler's current state," I said instead. "You mentioned he's withdrawn. Are there any other changes you've noticed? Mood swings, appetite changes, sleep disturbances?"
Galpin considered this. "He's angry more than he used to be. Little things set him off; someone cutting in line, a customer being rude. He contains it, doesn't lash out, but I can see it simmering underneath. And yeah, he's not sleeping well. I hear him pacing in his room at night, sometimes until three or four in the morning."
The anger was the Hyde trying to surface. The insomnia was probably nightmares, or worse; early partial transformations that Tyler didn't fully remember, his body trying to express what his mind couldn't process. I needed to be very careful how I responded to this information.
"Those are common symptoms of unresolved grief and trauma," I said, which was technically true even if the actual cause was much more complicated. "The anger in particular is often a secondary emotion, it's easier to feel angry than to feel scared or sad or helpless."
"That's what Marilyn said too," Galpin murmured. "She said Tyler needs to find healthy outlets for his emotions."
I wondered what Laurel considered a "healthy outlet." Probably tearing apart outcasts in the woods.
"Sheriff, I want to be direct with you," I said, leaning forward slightly. "I can offer Tyler therapy, and I think it could potentially help him. But I need you to understand that therapy only works if the client wants to be there. If you force Tyler to come see me because you're worried about him, he's going to resent it, and we won't make any progress."
"So what do you suggest?"
"Let me reach out to him directly. I've actually already met Tyler briefly at the Weathervane. I'll stop by again, maybe have a casual conversation, feel out whether he's open to the idea. If he is, we'll set up an initial session and see how it goes. If he's not, then pushing the issue will only make things worse."
Galpin looked uncomfortable with this, like he wanted to order his son into therapy the way he might order a deputy to file a report. But finally, he nodded. "Alright. But Dr. Kinbott, if you think Tyler is a danger to himself or others, you'll tell me, right? That's something you're required to report?"
The question sent a chill down my spine. If I followed proper protocol, if I reported that I had reason to believe Tyler was dangerous, what would happen? Would Galpin investigate? Would he somehow protect his son, cover for him, make the situation worse? Or would he actually do something that could prevent the murders?
"If I have reason to believe someone is at imminent risk of harm, yes, I'm legally obligated to break confidentiality," I said carefully. "But that's a very high bar. General worry about someone's mental state doesn't meet that threshold."
He studied me for a long moment, and I had the uncomfortable sensation of being evaluated by someone who made a career out of spotting liars. "You seem young for this kind of work," he said finally. "How long have you been practicing?"
The question caught me off guard. "I received my doctorate four years ago," I said, pulling the information from Valerie's memories. "I've been working with adolescents for about six years total, if you count my practicum placements."
"And you work primarily with outcasts?"
There was something in his tone; not quite accusation, but close. A warning edge that suggested he was connecting dots I didn't want him to connect.
"I work primarily with Nevermore students, yes," I said evenly. "But I've also worked with normie adolescents. Trauma and mental health don't discriminate based on whether someone has abilities."
"But you're comfortable around them. The outcasts." It wasn't quite a question.
"I'm comfortable around teenagers who are struggling, regardless of their biology," I said, putting a little steel in my voice. "My job is to help people, Sheriff Galpin. Not to judge them based on circumstances of their birth."
His expression hardened. "My wife was killed by an outcast who couldn't control their abilities. Or chose not to. So forgive me if I'm not as open-minded as you are about the difference between normies and people who can kill you with their minds."
I took a breath, forcing myself to stay calm. This was important. How I handled this conversation would shape everything that came after.
"I'm not asking you to be open-minded," I said quietly. "I'm not asking you to forgive whoever killed your wife. What happened to Francoise was a tragedy, and whoever did it should be held accountable. But Tyler is your son, and he's drowning in grief and anger, and if someone doesn't help him process that in a healthy way, it's going to destroy him. That's what I'm offering, a way to help Tyler before the anger consumes him completely."
Galpin's jaw worked, and for a moment I thought he might stand up and leave. But then he slumped slightly, and suddenly he just looked tired. Old and tired and desperate.
"I don't know how to help him," he said, and the admission seemed to cost him. "I don't know how to reach him anymore. He looks at me like I'm the enemy sometimes, and I don't understand why. I'm his father. I'm supposed to protect him. But I don't know what I'm protecting him from."
"From himself," I said softly. "From the parts of his grief that feel too big to contain. That's what I can help with, if he'll let me."
Galpin nodded slowly, rubbing a hand across his face. "Alright. Talk to him. See if you can get through to him. God knows I can't." He stood up, and I stood with him. At the door, he paused. "Dr. Kinbott, Tyler is all I have left. If something happens to him..."
"I'll do everything I can to help him," I promised, and meant it. Even if helping Tyler meant protecting him from himself, from Laurel, from the monster sleeping inside him.
After he left, I sat back down at my desk and pulled out my notebook, hands shaking slightly. That conversation had been more revealing than I'd expected. Sheriff Galpin's hatred of outcasts was deeper than I'd realized, and Tyler had been swimming in that poison for his entire life. No wonder Laurel had found him such a perfect candidate.
But there was something else too; Galpin's obvious desperation, his willingness to reach out for help despite his pride. He loved his son. Under all the anger and prejudice and grief, he genuinely wanted Tyler to be okay. That was something I might be able to use, if I was careful.
I flipped to a new page and started writing.
Sheriff Galpin - Key Observations:
- Deep-seated hatred of outcasts predating Francoise's death (likely cultural, passed to Tyler)
- Genuine grief and desperation re: Tyler's wellbeing
- Completely unaware of Laurel's manipulation (sees her as helpful)
- Would be receptive to concerns about Tyler IF framed correctly
- Major blind spot: won't suspect outcasts are victims, only perpetrators
- Potential ally? But only if I can overcome his prejudices
Risk factors:
- If Tyler is exposed as Hyde, Galpin will protect him (parental instinct)
- If I'm killed and framed, Galpin will believe I deserved it (outcast sympathizer)
- If I try to warn him about Laurel, he'll think I'm deflecting from "real" threats
Possible approaches:
- Build relationship with Tyler first, establish myself as someone who helped him
- Plant seeds of doubt about adults who isolate teenagers from family
- Frame Laurel as potential bad influence without mentioning outcasts
- Use Galpin's protective instincts, not his prejudices
I was still writing when my phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number; I was getting a lot of those lately, each one a small spike of anxiety until I confirmed it wasn't immediately life-threatening.
This one read: "Dr. Kinbott, this is Tyler. My dad said you wanted to talk to me about therapy. I'll be at the Weathervane until 5 today if you want to stop by."
My heart rate kicked up. This was it. My first real conversation with Tyler, the opening move in what would either be a successful intervention or a catastrophic failure that ended with my death. No pressure.
I checked my watch; three-thirty. I had ninety minutes to prepare for the most important therapy consultation of my life. A consultation with someone who wasn't technically my client yet, who might already be too far gone for me to help, who would eventually become the instrument of my death if I couldn't find a way to change the story.
I pulled out a fresh page and started mapping out the conversation. What to say, what not to say, how to present myself as helpful without being threatening, trustworthy without being naive. Every word would matter. Every gesture would be analyzed and reported back to Laurel. I had to play this perfectly.
By four-thirty, I'd filled three pages with notes and my hands had stopped shaking. I grabbed my bag, locked my office, and walked toward the Weathervane with the afternoon sun casting long shadows across Jericho's streets. Somewhere in this town, Laurel Gates was watching, waiting, pulling strings. Somewhere, Wednesday Addams was packing for Nevermore, unaware that she was about to walk into a trap that had been years in the making.
And here I was, about to sit down with a future monster and try to talk him out of murdering me.
The Weathervane's bell chimed as I entered. The coffee shop was mostly empty at this hour; a couple of college students studying in the corner, an elderly woman reading a newspaper, Tyler behind the counter wiping down the espresso machine. He looked up when I entered, and something flickered across his face. Not quite recognition, but not quite suspicion either. Wariness, maybe. The look of someone who'd learned not to trust easily.
"Dr. Kinbott," he said, setting down his cloth. "You want coffee?"
"Please. Whatever you recommend." I settled onto one of the bar stools at the counter, deliberately choosing a casual posture. Not the formal positioning of therapist and client, but the relaxed stance of two people just talking.
Tyler moved through the motions of making a latte with practiced efficiency. His hands were steady, his movements precise. Nothing about him suggested he was secretly a monster. But then, that was the whole point of Hydes, wasn't it? They looked human until they didn't.
"My dad talked to you," he said, not quite a question.
"He did. He's worried about you."
"He's always worried about me." Tyler set the latte in front of me, the foam swirled into a perfect leaf pattern. "Ever since Mom died, he treats me like I'm going to break."
"Are you going to break?"
The bluntness seemed to surprise him. He'd probably expected platitudes, gentle probing, the usual therapeutic dance. Instead, I'd asked the question directly.
"I don't know," he said finally, and there was something raw in his voice. Something real. "Sometimes I feel like I'm holding myself together with duct tape and spite. And sometimes I feel like there's something else inside me, something angry, and if I let go for even a second it's going to destroy everything."
My blood ran cold. That was the Hyde. He could feel it, even if he didn't understand what it was. The anger, the sense of something other, the fear of losing control. He was describing the early stages of transformation, and he had no idea what was happening to him.
"That sounds terrifying," I said quietly.
"It is." He looked down at his hands, flexing his fingers like he was checking to make sure they were still his own. "Ms. Thornhill says it's normal, that it's just grief manifesting as anger. She says I need to accept it, learn to work with it instead of fighting it."
Of course she did. Because accepting the anger, letting it surface, giving it permission to exist; that was exactly how you activated a Hyde. Laurel was coaching him through his own transformation, disguising it as therapy, and he had no idea.
"What do you think?" I asked. "Does that advice feel right to you?"
Tyler was quiet for a long moment. "I don't know. Sometimes when I'm with her, when we're talking, everything makes sense. She understands me in a way nobody else does. She knows what it's like to feel different, to feel like you don't belong anywhere." He paused. "But then I'm alone, and the anger is still there, and I don't know if accepting it is the same as controlling it."
There. That was my opening. That tiny sliver of doubt, that question about whether acceptance was the same as control. If I could widen that gap, if I could introduce enough uncertainty to make him question Laurel's guidance...
"They're not the same thing," I said carefully. "Accepting that you feel angry is healthy. It means you're not suppressing your emotions, not pretending everything is fine when it isn't. But controlling anger—learning how to express it safely, how to make sure it doesn't hurt you or anyone else—that's a separate skill. One doesn't automatically lead to the other."
Tyler looked up at me, and I could see him processing this. "Ms. Thornhill said suppression is what causes problems. That if I try to control my anger instead of expressing it, it'll just come out in worse ways."
"There's a difference between suppression and regulation," I said. "Suppression is pretending you don't feel something. Regulation is feeling it but choosing how to respond to it. You can acknowledge your anger without letting it control your actions."
"How?"
Such a simple question. Such an impossible answer. How did you teach someone emotional regulation when their emotions were being manipulated by a psychopath who wanted to turn them into a weapon? How did you introduce healthy coping mechanisms when every tool you gave them would be reported back to their abuser?
"It's different for everyone," I said, stalling while I figured out how to navigate this minefield. "But usually it starts with understanding what triggers the anger. What situations, what thoughts, what memories make you feel like you're losing control?"
Tyler's jaw tightened. "Thinking about my mom. About what happened to her. About the fact that the outcast who killed her is still out there somewhere, probably living their life like they didn't destroy mine."
And there it was—the foundation Laurel was building on. The justified rage, the desire for vengeance, the certainty that outcasts were the enemy. She'd taken his legitimate grief and twisted it into something she could use.
"That's a lot of anger to carry," I said quietly. "And it's understandable. Your mother was murdered, and there's been no justice. That would make anyone furious."
"But?" Tyler said, because he could hear it in my voice.
"But anger at the person who killed your mother is different from anger at all outcasts," I said, choosing my words very carefully. "One is specific and justified. The other is generalized prejudice. And generalized prejudice tends to hurt innocent people."
His expression closed off immediately. "You sound like one of those people who defends them. Who says we should all just get along and pretend like they're not dangerous."
"I'm not defending anyone," I said evenly. "I'm saying that the outcast who killed your mother is responsible for killing your mother. Not every other outcast on the planet. Just like if a normie murdered someone, we wouldn't blame all normies."
"It's not the same."
"Why not?"
"Because they have powers. Because they can do things we can't, hurt people in ways we can't defend against. My mom was killed by someone who used their abilities as a weapon, and then they probably used those same abilities to escape. How is that the same as a normie criminal?"
It was a fair point, twisted by grief and prejudice into something uglier than it needed to be. And I couldn't exactly argue against it without revealing that I knew the full story—that his mother had probably been killed by a Hyde, that he was a Hyde himself, that the real monster was the normie woman who'd been grooming him for months.
"You're right that abilities can be used as weapons," I said carefully. "But most outcasts never hurt anyone with their powers. Most of them are just trying to live their lives. Holding all of them responsible for what one person did—that's the definition of prejudice."
"So I'm just supposed to forgive and forget? Pretend like my mom's death doesn't matter?"
"No. You're supposed to grieve, and be angry, and want justice. But you're also supposed to be angry at the right person, not everyone who happens to share a characteristic with them."
Tyler stared at me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he said, quietly, "You work with Nevermore students. You probably think I'm a bigot."
"I think you're a teenager who's been through something traumatic and is trying to make sense of a world that suddenly seems dangerous and unfair. I think the anger you feel is real and valid. And I think the conclusions you're drawing from that anger might be worth examining."
"Ms. Thornhill says—"
"Ms. Thornhill isn't your therapist," I interrupted, perhaps more sharply than I should have. "She's a teacher who's being kind to you, and I'm glad you have her support. But she's not trained in trauma therapy, and grief counseling, and helping people process rage in healthy ways. That's my job, if you want it to be."
Silence stretched between us. Tyler's hands were clenched on the counter, and I could see the tension in his shoulders. For a moment I thought I'd pushed too hard, that I'd lost him completely.
Then he said, "What would it look like? Therapy with you?"
"We'd meet once a week, probably in my office. You'd talk about whatever you wanted to talk about—your mom, your dad, school, the Weathervane, whatever. I'd listen, ask questions, help you process your feelings and develop healthier coping mechanisms. Sometimes I might push back on things you say, the way I just did. But the goal would always be to help you, not to change who you are."
"And you'd tell my dad everything I said."
"No. Therapy is confidential. The only time I'd break confidentiality is if I thought you were going to hurt yourself or someone else, or if there was abuse or neglect happening. Otherwise, what you tell me stays between us."
Tyler considered this, and I could see him weighing the risks and benefits. Could he trust me? Would I judge him? Would therapy actually help, or would it just be another space where he had to perform being okay?
"Ms. Thornhill said therapy might help," he said finally. "She said I should at least try it."
Of course she did. Because she wanted me involved, wanted me to be his therapist, wanted me positioned perfectly to be eliminated when the time came.
"It's not about what Ms. Thornhill thinks, or what your dad thinks," I said. "It's about what you think. Do you want help processing what happened to your mom? Do you want to figure out why you're so angry all the time? Do you want to learn how to feel like yourself again instead of like you're holding back something that wants to destroy everything?"
His eyes widened slightly at that last part. I'd hit a nerve, touched on the thing he was most afraid of—the loss of control, the sense that something inside him was wrong.
"Yeah," he said quietly. "Yeah, I want that."
"Then let's try it. One session, see how it goes. If it's not helpful, we stop. If it is, we continue. But you're in control of this, Tyler. Not your dad, not Ms. Thornhill, not me. You."
He nodded slowly, and some of the tension left his shoulders. "Okay. When?"
"How about Tuesday afternoon? Four o'clock?" That would give me a few days to prepare, to figure out how to approach our first real session.
"Tuesday works. I'm off at three."
"Perfect." I pulled out my phone and typed in the appointment, trying to ignore the way my hands wanted to shake. This was really happening. Tyler Galpin was going to be my client. I was going to sit in a room alone with a Hyde-in-training and try to undo months of conditioning while pretending I had no idea what he really was.
I was either brilliant or suicidal, and I honestly wasn't sure which.
"Dr. Kinbott?" Tyler said as I stood to leave. "That thing you said about the anger feeling like something else inside me. How did you know that's what it feels like?"
Because I watched you transform into a monster and murder people on a Netflix show, I didn't say. Because I know exactly what you are and what you're going to become if I can't stop it.
"Because anger often feels like that," I said instead. "Like it's separate from you, like it's something foreign that's taken up residence in your head. But it's not. It's just a part of you that's hurting and doesn't know how else to express it."
"And you think you can help me control it?"
I met his eyes, these dark, desperate eyes that belonged to a boy who had no idea he was being weaponized, and I lied through my teeth. "I'm going to try."
The walk back to my office felt longer than it should have. The sun was setting, painting Jericho in shades of amber and shadow, and I couldn't shake the feeling that I'd just made a terrible mistake. I'd committed to treating Tyler, which meant I was now officially part of Laurel's plan. Every session would be monitored, every word reported back, every intervention analyzed for signs that I knew too much.
But what choice did I have? If I'd refused to treat him, Laurel would have found another therapist, someone who wouldn't see the warning signs, someone who'd die even faster than I probably would. At least this way, I had a chance. At least this way, I could try to introduce enough doubt, enough self-awareness, enough resistance to Laurel's control that maybe—maybe—when the time came for Tyler to kill me, some part of him would hesitate.
It wasn't much of a plan. But it was all I had.
My office was dark when I returned to it, shadows pooling in the corners, the furniture reduced to vague shapes. I flipped on the lights and locked the door behind me, then stood in the middle of the room and tried to imagine it filled with violence. Tried to picture Tyler transforming, the Hyde breaking through, claws and teeth and rage incarnate.
Tried to picture myself surviving it.
Three days until Wednesday Addams arrived. Four days until my first session with Tyler. Less than two weeks until the murders started and the plot locked into place.
I pulled out my notebook and added a new entry:
Session 1 with Tyler - Goals:
- Establish trust and rapport
- Begin assessment of Laurel's influence
- Introduce concept of emotional regulation
- Plant seeds of critical thinking re: authority figures
- DO NOT reveal knowledge of Hyde
- DO NOT push too hard too fast
- DO NOT die
That last point seemed particularly important.
I was still writing when my phone buzzed one more time. Another unknown number, another message: "Dr. Kinbott, apologies for the late notice. We will be arriving Sunday morning rather than afternoon. Wednesday is eager to 'get this over with' as she puts it. Would 10 AM work for an initial session? - Gomez Addams"
Sunday morning. Less than three days now.
I typed back: "10 AM works perfectly. I look forward to meeting Wednesday."
Then I set my phone down, turned off the lights, and left my office before I could think too hard about what I'd just agreed to.
In three days, I would meet Wednesday Addams. In four days, I would begin treating Tyler Galpin. And sometime in the next two weeks, I would either find a way to survive this story, or I would become just another tragic footnote in someone else's narrative.
The backstory who almost fought back.
Almost.