Sunday morning arrived with the kind of crisp autumn weather that made you believe in fresh starts and new beginnings, which was deeply ironic considering I was about to meet the girl who would spend the next several weeks investigating murders, uncovering conspiracies, and generally treating my professional services with the disdain they probably deserved.
I'd been awake since four AM, unable to sleep, running through possible scenarios in my head. I'd reorganized my office three times, changed my outfit twice, and gone through an entire pot of coffee before seven. Now, at nine-forty-five, I sat at my desk trying to look calm and professional while my heart hammered against my ribs like it was trying to escape.
The smart thing would have been to treat Wednesday like any other client. Take notes, ask open-ended questions, establish therapeutic rapport, follow the standard protocol that Valerie Kinbott had learned in graduate school and practiced for years. The smart thing would have been to play my role exactly as written and hope I survived long enough for Wednesday to solve the mystery on her own.
But the smart thing wasn't going to save my life.
I needed Wednesday on my side. I needed her to see me as useful rather than annoying, as a resource rather than an obstacle. And that meant abandoning every principle of traditional therapy and instead figuring out how to offer something Wednesday actually wanted.
My notebook lay open on the desk, filled with strategies I'd spent the past three days developing and discarding. Most of them were terrible. A few might actually work. All of them required me to walk an impossibly fine line between helpful and suspicious.
The building's front door opened and closed with a heavy thunk that echoed through the walls. Footsteps on the stairs—multiple sets, measured and deliberate. I stood up, smoothing down my shirt, and waited.
The knock, when it came, was surprisingly polite. Three sharp raps, perfectly spaced.
I opened the door to find Wednesday Addams standing between her parents like a small, gothic storm cloud. She was exactly as I remembered from the show—pale face, dark braids, an expression of such profound disdain that it bordered on artistry. She wore all black, naturally, her collar crisp and her posture rigid. Behind her, Gomez Addams practically vibrated with nervous energy, his mustache twitching, while Morticia loomed with the kind of elegant menace that suggested she could kill you with a look and make it seem like a favor.
"Dr. Kinbott," Gomez said, extending his hand with theatrical enthusiasm. "What a pleasure to finally meet you. I'm Gomez Addams, this is my wife Morticia, and this, of course, is our daughter Wednesday."
I shook his hand, noting the firm grip and the slight desperation in his eyes. These were parents who loved their daughter but had absolutely no idea what to do with her.
"Please, come in," I said, stepping back to let them enter. Wednesday swept past me without a word, her eyes already scanning the office with the kind of analytical precision that suggested she was cataloging exits, potential weapons, and my various psychological weaknesses all at once.
Morticia glided in behind her daughter, and up close I could see where Wednesday got her unsettling intensity. Morticia's eyes were dark and ancient, the kind of eyes that had seen too much and found it all faintly amusing.
"What a charming space," Morticia said, though her tone suggested she found it anything but. "Very... beige."
"I find neutral colors help clients feel calm," I said, which was therapist-speak for "I inherited this office furniture and haven't bothered to redecorate."
"How boring," Wednesday said. She'd positioned herself in front of my bookshelf, examining the titles with obvious judgment. "Cognitive Behavioral Therapy for Adolescents. The Developing Mind. Trauma and Recovery." She pulled out a book and flipped through it with theatrical disdain. "All the greatest hits of people trying to normalize the abnormal."
"Wednesday," Gomez said, his voice strained with forced cheerfulness. "Dr. Kinbott is here to help you."
"I don't need help. I need a competent lawyer and evidence that the water polo team was engaging in biological warfare." Wednesday replaced the book with deliberate precision. "Since neither of those things are available, I suppose I'm stuck with court-mandated therapy."
"The piranhas were a disproportionate response," Morticia said mildly.
"They were a perfectly calibrated response to systematic bullying and institutional incompetence." Wednesday turned to face me fully for the first time, and the weight of her stare was like being dissected by a very small, very efficient scalpel. "You're younger than I expected. And your credentials are prominently displayed, which suggests insecurity about your qualifications. The furniture arrangement is textbook—desk as barrier, client chair positioned to create artificial intimacy, tissues strategically placed for emotional manipulation. You've read the standard texts on adolescent therapy and followed their recommendations precisely, which means you're either risk-averse or uncreative. Possibly both."
I blinked. We'd been in the room for less than two minutes and Wednesday had already psychoanalyzed my entire professional persona. This was going to be even more difficult than I'd anticipated.
"That's a very thorough assessment," I said evenly. "Would you like to sit down, or would you prefer to continue cataloging my inadequacies from a standing position?"
Something flickered in Wednesday's eyes—not quite amusement, but close. "At least you don't pretend to be offended. That's moderately promising."
Gomez cleared his throat. "Dr. Kinbott, before we leave Wednesday with you, we wanted to clarify the terms of her probation. She's required to attend weekly sessions for the duration of the semester. The court has mandated that you provide regular reports on her progress."
"Actually," I said carefully, "the court requested documentation that Wednesday is attending sessions and engaging with the therapeutic process. They didn't specify what constitutes 'progress,' and I have significant discretion in how I define engagement."
Wednesday's head tilted slightly, a predator catching an unexpected scent. "You're saying you could report that I'm attending and participating even if I spend the entire hour in hostile silence?"
"I'm saying that therapy takes many forms, and progress isn't always linear or conventional," I said, meeting her gaze steadily. "My job is to provide a space where you can process your experiences and develop healthier coping mechanisms. How we achieve that is something we can negotiate."
"Negotiate," Wednesday repeated, and now there was definite interest in her voice. "Therapy is usually presented as non-negotiable. Adults tell teenagers what they need to feel and then punish them for feeling it wrong."
"That's one approach," I acknowledged. "It's also deeply ineffective, particularly with intelligent clients who can see through the manipulation."
Morticia made a soft sound that might have been approval. "Dr. Kinbott, you're more interesting than your office suggests."
"I'm certainly hoping so," I said dryly.
Gomez was watching this exchange with the expression of someone who wasn't quite sure if things were going well or terribly. "So you think you can work with Wednesday? Even given her... particular disposition?"
"I think Wednesday and I can come to an arrangement that satisfies the court's requirements while respecting her autonomy," I said. "But I'd like to speak with her alone first, if that's acceptable?"
Wednesday's parents exchanged one of those wordless parental conversations that conveyed volumes. Finally, Morticia nodded.
"We'll be at the Weathervane," she said, placing a hand on Wednesday's shoulder with surprising gentleness. "Please try not to psychologically destroy your therapist in the first session, darling. We're running out of professionals willing to work with you."
"I make no promises," Wednesday said, but there was something almost affectionate in her tone.
After her parents left, the office felt different—smaller somehow, more charged. Wednesday remained standing, her hands clasped behind her back, studying me with unnerving focus.
"So," she said. "What's your strategy? Are you going to try to befriend me? Establish trust through manufactured vulnerability? Use silence to make me uncomfortable enough to fill the space with confessions?"
"I was thinking of offering you a deal," I said.
That got her attention. "What kind of deal?"
"You're required to be here for an hour every week. I'm required to document that you're attending and engaging. Both of us would prefer to make this time useful rather than torturous." I leaned back in my chair, deliberately casual. "So here's my proposal: you show up, I sign off on your attendance. During that hour, instead of forcing you to talk about your feelings, I provide you with things you might actually find valuable."
"Such as?"
"Local history. Psychological profiles of key figures in Jericho. Information about Nevermore's past, the Gates family, the outcast-normie tensions that have shaped this town." I watched her carefully. "I've been working with Nevermore students for two years. I know the stories, the rumors, the things people don't talk about publicly. If you're going to be stuck in this town, you might as well understand it."
Wednesday's expression didn't change, but I could see the gears turning behind her eyes. "Why would you offer me that?"
"Because I'd rather have you in here voluntarily, engaged with something you find interesting, than fighting me for an hour every week. And because," I added, taking a calculated risk, "you're going to investigate something regardless of what I do. You always do. You might as well have accurate information."
"You've read my file."
"Extensively. And spoken with several of your former teachers." I pulled out a folder—Wednesday's disciplinary record—and slid it across the desk. "You have a pattern. New school, new mystery, new disaster. You see injustice and you can't leave it alone. You're compulsively driven to uncover truth, regardless of the personal cost."
"You say that like it's a pathology."
"I say it like it's a defining characteristic. Whether it's a pathology depends on how you channel it." I leaned forward. "Here's what I know about you, Wednesday. You're brilliant, ruthless, and completely uninterested in social approval. You see through people's facades with disturbing accuracy. You have rigid moral standards but flexible ethics. And you're deeply, painfully bored by anything that doesn't challenge you intellectually."
"Is this supposed to be therapy?"
"This is me establishing that I'm not going to waste your time pretending you need to be fixed. You don't. You're functioning exactly as designed—you're just designed differently than most people, and the world finds that threatening." I held her gaze. "So instead of trying to normalize you, I'm offering you a trade. You give me an hour a week where we both pretend this is therapy. I give you information and access that might prove useful in whatever investigation you inevitably launch."
Wednesday was quiet for a long moment, and I couldn't read her expression at all. Finally, she said, "What do you get out of this arrangement?"
Sharp. Of course she'd ask that. Wednesday didn't trust altruism.
"I get to keep my license," I said honestly. "The court expects regular sessions. If you refuse to attend or spend every hour in hostile silence, they'll assume I'm not doing my job and assign you to someone else. Then you get a therapist who actually tries to change you, and I get a black mark on my professional record. This way, we both get what we need."
"You're bribing me with information to ensure your own professional survival."
"I prefer to think of it as a mutually beneficial arrangement, but yes, essentially."
Another long silence. Then Wednesday moved to the chair—the one I'd positioned for clients, the one that was supposed to create artificial intimacy—and sat down with perfect posture.
"I want to know about the Gates family," she said. "Principal Weems mentioned them during my admission interview but became evasive when I asked for details."
My heart rate kicked up. Of course Wednesday would go straight for the most dangerous information. Of course she'd identified the Gates family as significant within five minutes of arriving in Jericho.
"The Gates family founded Jericho," I said, carefully measuring out information the way you'd measure poison. "Joseph Crackstone was the original colonial leader, but the Gates family were his most loyal followers. They were normies who believed outcasts were an abomination that needed to be purged."
"Were?"
"The family line died out decades ago. Or so everyone assumed." I paused, watching Wednesday's reaction. "There were rumors about a daughter who survived, but no confirmed records."
Wednesday's eyes narrowed. "You're being deliberately vague. Either you know more and aren't telling me, or you suspect something but can't prove it."
Damn. She was too smart. I needed to give her enough to be useful, but not so much that she'd question how I knew.
"I have theories," I said carefully. "But nothing concrete. That's the frustrating thing about small-town history—it's all rumors and whispered stories and things people choose not to examine too closely."
"Then tell me the rumors."
"Wednesday—"
"You offered me information. I'm requesting it. Unless your deal was performative nonsense designed to make me feel like I have agency while you maintain complete control over what I actually learn?"
She had me cornered, and she knew it. This was the problem with treating Wednesday like an intellectual equal—she actually was one, and she'd use that to dismantle any attempt at manipulation.
"Fine," I said. "The rumors suggest that the Gates family was more involved in outcast persecution than official history acknowledges. That Joseph Crackstone's attack on Nevermore—the one where he burned the school and killed multiple students—was orchestrated with Gates support. That the Gates family continued their crusade even after Crackstone's death, just more quietly."
"And the surviving daughter?"
"Would have been raised with those beliefs. Would have grown up hating outcasts, blaming them for her family's downfall. Would potentially be dangerous if she ever decided to continue her ancestors' work."
Wednesday absorbed this with no visible reaction. "You think she's in Jericho."
It wasn't a question. Wednesday had already made the logical leap—if I was bringing this up, if I thought it was relevant to her specifically, then the threat must be present and current.
"I think it's worth being aware of the town's history," I said neutrally. "Prejudice doesn't disappear just because we stop talking about it. It goes underground and festers."
"You're warning me that someone in Jericho might want to hurt Nevermore students."
"I'm providing historical context that suggests outcast-normie tensions in this town run deeper than they appear on the surface. What you do with that information is your choice."
Wednesday studied me with those dark, unreadable eyes, and I felt like I was being x-rayed. "You're not like other therapists."
"I'll take that as a compliment."
"It's an observation. Other therapists have tried to make me trust them, open up to them, depend on them. You're keeping me at arm's length while simultaneously offering information no responsible professional should share with a minor." She tilted her head. "Either you're catastrophically bad at your job, or you have an agenda that extends beyond therapeutic duty of care."
My mouth went dry. We'd been talking for less than twenty minutes and Wednesday had already identified that something was off about me. This was exactly what I'd been afraid of—that she'd see through me too clearly, too quickly, and I'd end up on her suspect list.
"My agenda is keeping you alive and out of jail," I said, which was true even if it wasn't the whole truth. "You have a pattern of finding trouble. I'd prefer you find it while armed with accurate information rather than stumbling into danger blind."
"Why do you care if I'm in danger?"
"Because you're my client, and I take my professional responsibilities seriously."
"That's a lie." Wednesday said it calmly, matter-of-factly. "You do take your responsibilities seriously, but that's not why you care. There's something else. Something you're not saying."
I forced myself to hold her gaze, to not look away, to not give any physical tell that she'd hit the mark. "Wednesday, I'm not going to sit here and pretend I'm not concerned about a teenager with your history walking into a town with Jericho's background. Of course I'm worried about you getting hurt. That's not mysterious or sinister. That's basic human decency."
"Human decency is usually code for manipulation."
"Not always. Sometimes it's just people trying not to be terrible."
Wednesday considered this, then seemed to come to some internal decision. "Fine. I'll accept your deal. One hour per week, you provide information, I don't actively sabotage your career. But if I find out you're lying to me about something significant, the arrangement ends and I will make it my personal mission to discover whatever you're hiding."
"Fair enough," I said, trying to ignore the cold sweat forming between my shoulder blades. Wednesday Addams as an enemy was the last thing I needed.
"Now," Wednesday said, settling back in her chair with the air of someone preparing for an interesting lecture, "tell me everything you know about Hydes."
The world tilted sideways.
"What?" I managed, my voice strangled.
"Hydes. Principal Weems mentioned them during my admission interview. She seemed uncomfortable with the topic, which suggests they're either particularly dangerous or particularly relevant to Nevermore's history. Since you're offering historical information, I assume that includes information about outcast species."
She didn't know. She was just being thorough, cataloging information about the supernatural world she was entering. This was innocent curiosity, not evidence that she'd somehow figured out the plot before it even started.
I needed to breathe. Needed to respond normally. Needed to not reveal that she'd just asked about the exact creature that was going to murder multiple people in the next few weeks.
"Hydes are rare," I said, my voice steadier than I felt. "They're not technically a species—more like a mutation. They're triggered by trauma and controlled through psychological manipulation. The transformation is apparently..." I paused, searching for the right word. "Violent. Both for the Hyde and for anyone nearby."
"Fascinating. Are there any in Jericho?"
"Not that I'm aware of," I lied, and hated how easily the lie came. "They're extremely rare. Most people go their entire lives without encountering one."
Wednesday looked disappointed. "Pity. They sound interesting."
"They're dangerous, Wednesday. Not interesting. Dangerous."
"Those aren't mutually exclusive categories."
Before I could respond, my phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number: "Dr. Kinbott, this is Larissa Weems. How did the session with Wednesday go? I trust she wasn't too difficult?"
I typed back quickly: "Session went well. Wednesday and I have established a good working relationship. No concerns at this time."
When I looked up, Wednesday was watching me with unnerving focus. "Principal Weems is checking up on me."
"She's concerned about you. That's her job."
"She's afraid of me. That's different." Wednesday stood up, smoothing down her skirt. "I believe our hour is nearly complete. Same time next week?"
"Same time next week," I confirmed. "And Wednesday? If you do decide to investigate something—and I know you will—please try to be careful. Jericho isn't as safe as it looks."
"Nowhere is as safe as it looks. That's what makes it interesting." She moved toward the door, then paused. "Dr. Kinbott, that information about the Gates family. You said the daughter would have grown up hating outcasts."
"Yes."
"Did you tell me that because you think I'll encounter her, or because you think I already have?"
My breath caught. How did she do that? How did she take scattered pieces of information and assemble them into exactly the right question?
"I told you because knowledge is protection," I said carefully. "Whatever you might encounter in Jericho, you're better off knowing the history than being surprised by it."
Wednesday studied me for another long moment, and I had the distinct impression that she was filing this conversation away for future analysis. Then she nodded once and left, her footsteps precise and measured on the stairs.
I waited until I heard the building's front door close before I let myself collapse back in my chair, my hands shaking. That had been... intense. Wednesday was everything I'd remembered from the show and worse—smarter, more perceptive, more dangerous in her observations. I'd managed to navigate our first session without completely revealing myself, but it had been close. Too close.
And now Wednesday was primed to investigate the Gates family, which was exactly what I'd wanted, except now I had to live with the knowledge that I'd deliberately pointed a seventeen-year-old girl toward a psychotic murderer because it was the only way I could think of to survive.
I pulled out my notebook and started writing, my hand still unsteady.
Session 1 - Wednesday Addams
Outcome: Successful establishment of alternative therapeutic relationship. Wednesday responded well to direct approach and information exchange. She is extremely perceptive—nearly identified that I have an agenda beyond standard therapy. Need to be more careful with future interactions.
Concerns:
Wednesday is already asking about Hydes (coincidence? or is she somehow connected to the timeline in ways I don't understand?)She identified Gates family as significant immediatelyShe knows I'm holding something back but doesn't know what yetIf she investigates me as thoroughly as she investigates everything else, my cover won't hold
Strategy going forward:
Continue information exchange but be more careful about what I revealRedirect her curiosity toward Laurel/Marilyn when possibleDO NOT give her any reason to suspect I know the futureRemember: Wednesday is not my ally. She's a force of nature that I'm trying to aim in the right direction.
I was still writing when another text came through, this time from a number I recognized: Tyler.
"Session still on for Tuesday?"
I stared at the message for a long moment, feeling the weight of everything crushing down on me. In forty-eight hours, I'd be sitting in this office with Tyler Galpin, trying to deprogram a Hyde while pretending I didn't know what he was. In six days, Wednesday would start classes at Nevermore and the plot would officially begin. In less than two weeks, the first murder would occur and I'd be racing against time to stay alive.
I typed back: "Yes. Tuesday at 4. See you then."
Then I closed my notebook, locked my office, and walked out into the bright Sunday afternoon. Somewhere in Jericho, Wednesday was probably already planning her first investigation. Somewhere, Laurel Gates was refining her plans for genocide. Somewhere, Tyler Galpin was serving coffee and trying to hold himself together while a monster grew stronger inside him.
And here I was, Dr. Valerie Kinbott, threading the needle between dozens of different disasters, trying to save everyone while knowing that I'd probably fail.
The really terrifying part?
I was starting to think I might actually have a chance.
And hope, as any good therapist knew, was often the most dangerous delusion of all.