Abigail was at her wit's end. Her sleep had been so restless that she found herself more exhausted than rested, and she arrived at the police station in a foul mood. To make matters worse, her superior's scrutinizing gaze had been on her since the previous day, worsening her morning. He informed her that the man arrested the day before had requested to be released. However, he assigned her one final interrogation, in case she could make him crack, with the condition that her superior would assist.

If she had tried to calm the storm in her mind, the arrogant tone of her suspect had achieved the opposite. So, when she asked him how he knew her, and he rolled his eyes, it was too much. She started screaming, and, in his refusal to cooperate, she abruptly grabbed his head and banged it against the table, creating a dent where the impact occurred. His eyelids fluttered for a moment, as if to rearrange the thoughts disrupted by the impact. As she asked him the question again, he claimed they were friends and had met nine years ago. Abigail, enraged by the mention of her sister who had died ten years ago, surprised him with a punch, causing him to fall from his chair. She leaped to his side and shouted her question, but couldn't get an answer. Agents entered with a commotion and seized her as she struggled. It was only when she looked back at her suspect that she calmed down: the man's face was covered in blood, and his eyebrow was damaged. She, who had sworn to protect the innocent, had just assaulted one without any reason other than a simple sketch resembling her sister. Her superior's deeply disappointed look only reinforced her discomfort, and she became almost catatonic, to the point that the two officers who had seized her had to support her to the commissioner's office.

She was informed that she would be suspended while an investigation was conducted, not only into her actions but also into the disturbing irregularities found in her file. She distantly heard that she would have to undergo a psychological test and likely have to apologize officially to the man she had just assaulted. The journey home seemed endless, as if she were walking the same hundred meters over and over. She felt like she washed ashore on the doorstep of her apartment and saw the wooden door as her salvation, her passage to a comfort zone, her home. Unfortunately, entering changed nothing about her discomfort, and she found herself wandering aimlessly in her living room. Her sister's photo was of no help, and she felt more distant from her than ever before. Even though the sun had not reached its zenith, she lay down on her couch and fell asleep.

When she woke up, the sun had not moved, nor had the time on the clock, despite the signals sent by her body. She took a moment to observe the date, and when the information was finally processed, panic overwhelmed her: she was extremely late. The memory of the previous day cut short her sudden momentum and plunged her back into lethargy. In response, Abigail went to pull the blanket from her bed and curled up in front of the TV. A call from the police station interrupted her cushioned retreat and informed her that her psychological evaluation was already scheduled for the next day, with a professional outside the police service. She thanked her superior and returned to her catatonia while her mind struggled to understand the reason for her actions.

She, who thought she had left her past behind, had she only been lying to herself in recent years? Her violence seemed to be evidence of that. Was it not rather the pressure she had imposed on herself to meet the expectations of her superiors and finally escape from the complaint desk service? Perhaps it was simply due to her lack of sleep the night before the incident?

However, none of these answers convinced her. Maybe it was an accumulation of all this that had pushed her to be so emotional and react on the spot to the image of her sister in the sketch of her suspect? Why had the suspect mentioned nine years when her sister had died ten years ago? The blow to the head had probably altered his memories, and he had meant to say eleven years. After all, maybe he knew something more about her sister's suicide? Abigail's thoughts and catatonia preoccupied her until dusk, where she found no other alternative but to go to sleep.

Sleep that was not restful, she noted, gently knocking on the door with the inscription "P. Hervé, Psychologist." Anxious all morning about this meeting, it was too late to back down. A hoarse voice invited her in, and Abigail froze at what she found to be the opposite of all the psychologists she had encountered before: dreadlocks coming out of a hooded sweatshirt and loose jeans covering large shoes with untied laces. The very definition of what she pictured as a skateboarder. However, the room did not seem to bring out the personality of its occupant with its very conventional arrangement, a sofa, a perfectly organized desk, and a bookshelf loaded with medical books. As she noted these details, the man invited her to sit as he took a seat in one of the two beige felt armchairs. The sofa looking particularly comfortable, it gave her the impression that she would fall asleep as soon as she lay down on it. She opted for one of the room's armchairs, closer to her interlocutor.

"Miss Rossi, right? I was quickly explained why you're here today, and I'd like to go back to it, but first of all, I have to be honest: I had access to the recording of your 'misstep' and your file, but also to your previous assignment and a few other aspects of your personal life," the psychologist warned, compassionate. "It didn't take me long to understand that your gesture must have plunged you into deep reflection. It's normal, reassure yourself."

— Are you a psychologist or a detective?" she asked in a vain attempt to divert the conversation.

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— Listen, I was asked for a diagnosis quickly, although these are not the conditions under which I work. To avoid the necessary phase where you talk to me about yourself, your background, and your life, I judged it necessary. I know it's not conventional and almost on the edge of ethics, but the conditions imposed on me forced me into it," explained the doctor. "So, let's directly address the problematic subject: the altercation with your witness. Can you tell me more?"

— I don't know... I've accumulated a lot of stress in recent weeks, and it worsened with my promotion: I imposed on myself to find the murderer, to prove to my superiors that I'm worthy of being a lieutenant," Abigail replied, observing the psychologist's reactions, seeking the right answers to give. "So when the suspect started not to comply... I think I lost my composure at that moment."

— Miss Rossi..." he began with a voice filled with gentleness. "I watched the recordings. Make no mistake, I act at the request of your superiors, but I remain primarily your ally. The goal is not to determine whether you acted correctly or not. No. Our goal, both of us, is to understand the reasons that led to it and if we can help you feel better."

— You're bound by doctor-patient confidentiality, right?" she assured. "Everything I tell you will stay between us, and my superiors will never hear about it?"

— That's correct. Medical confidentiality applied the moment I agreed to see you, which includes what we will say to each other, my observations, and my research," he detailed. "So you can tell me everything."

— You must have read that I lost my sister about ten years ago... I think it goes back to that moment," Abigail began, nervous, struggling to put words on her profound feelings. "The moment when I started to feel constantly bad... When my sister killed herself in a car accident. She hit a tree at over 200 km/h, and it was concluded as a simple traffic accident, a driving mistake. But I knew it wasn't. I knew that, in fact, she had committed suicide, that she deliberately crashed into that tree... And all of this was the fault of the man she was dating at the time. One day, her boyfriend and his friends invited her to an 'innocent' party, but... It quickly turned into a nightmare: she... She was raped one by one by those she thought were her friends... After that... She tried to get over it, to cut all ties with them, but it wasn't enough... They started to harass her mentally, making her believe that she was responsible for what happened and that no one would ever forgive her. That her family would disown her and that even if she dared to speak, no one would believe her. And that in case she dared to speak, they would then go after her little sister," Abigail swallowed painfully before continuing. "Me. Without knowing it, at that time, every time I went to see her, to tell her how happy I was, I was reinforcing her distress. Then one day, when they had pushed her to her limits, they whispered an idea to her. A macabre idea, a cruel idea, but a good way to escape them for good: that she should commit suicide. It took her a while to resolve to do it, but... On her twenty-fourth birthday, one year to the day after her rape, she took the car and... And she killed herself on the road."

The psychologist shuddered at the hearing of her story, and when she finished, he asked her how she could have known, as no investigation had been opened. Painfully, Abigail then told him that a few days after her sister's death, she had met one of her former friends again. The young man approached her and questioned her about the existence of any will. He insisted, harassed her to know if her sister had left anything behind. Still fragile, Abigail eventually cracked and began to cry, answering him. Leaving her abruptly, he rushed into a nearby alley while pulling out his phone. In shock, Abigail left the scene, but as she passed the alley, a snippet of conversation caught her attention. "I told you we were in no danger!" the man laughed, relieved. "She croaked without talking. Hmf, we're safe now." Without knowing how, Abigail found herself in his grips and beat him over and over until he confessed. He told her everything, all the horrors, all the messages, the ordeal they had inflicted on her sister. Her anger multiplied into blind rage, and she continued to beat him until he finally stopped moving. By divine justice, as she mimicked with quotation marks, her sister's former boyfriend had heard everything over the phone. Rallying his friends to intervene, they rushed to the scene, but they were all struck by a truck, ignoring a stop sign. "I don't believe in God, but that day... That day, I believed in a certain cosmic balance... Justice had been served."

A silence settled when she finished. The psychologist hesitated several times, then, finally finding his words, asked her to describe her relationship with her sister. "How could I describe that? She was my big sister. We fought as many times as we shared laughter. She taught me to tie my shoes; she helped me with my homework, even when she didn't understand anything. We listened to her favorite bands for hours, and they became mine... She loved drawing, and that's how I learned to pay attention to the strokes of artists. She covered for me with our parents when I did something wrong, then she explained to me how to do it better. She advised me on boys and then on men. She helped me tidy my room; she helped me move into my first apartment. She was the one who rescued me when life tried to drown me... She was more present than my parents, closer than my best friend... She was my big sister."

Abigail felt the psychologist's gaze as she reached for the tissue box on the coffee table. Tears had started to flow on their own, without her being able to stop them but without her suppressing them either. Deep down, Abigail knew she needed them. He waited for her tears to dry up, then, in a gentle voice, the doctor announced that their session was over, and he had enough information to write his report. She thought about asking him what his conclusions were, but as strange as it seemed to her, she no longer cared now. In a foggy state of mind, she shook the hand he extended and nodded when he suggested she go apologize to at least get rid of this bad memory. Two men were already waiting in the waiting room, and the hostile look they threw her made her guess that her session had been much longer than it should have been. However, the psychologist behind her encouraged her one last time before ushering in a new patient. Outside the office, Abigail felt light, more than she had felt in years.