“What the hell do you want?” Newan snaps through the door.

I shrug my shoulders. “Your help.” That’s putting it as plainly as I possibly can. “You offered your services not so long ago. I was hoping that offer still stood.”

There’s a long pause while Newan takes this in. She laughs. “You kidnapped me and handcuffed me to a toilet.”

“You betrayed your friend. You earned that.”

More silence. “What makes you think I’d risk letting you inside this apartment? Alone? How do I know you’re not here to kill me?”

“If I were here to kill you, I wouldn’t have fucking knocked. If you don’t want to let me inside your apartment, Dr. Newan, then we can easily talk through the door. I’m fine with that.”

A distinct stillness develops. The kind that makes me think Newan’s slipped away from the door—maybe to grab her phone? Perhaps Lowell will be here sooner than I’d hoped. “What do you think, Newan?” I ask.

I’m surprised when she answers right away, and louder than before. She hasn’t gone anywhere. “Tell me why. Tell me why you want to do this now.”

“Because I don’t want to hurt her. Because I want to make her happy.” These are two of the truest statements that have ever passed my lips. I’ve never meant anything more. There’s a pause, and then the gentle clicking of a lock being turned. The door opens an inch, revealing a suspicious-looking Pippa Newan. She’s in her PJs, her hair in a messy knot on top of her head. For all the time she spends making herself look so polished and immaculate, she’s far more attractive like this. I can actually see why a guy might check her out. Maybe.

“Stay right there,” she tells me.

I take a step back away from the door, leaning back against the opposite wall. I show her my hands—no weapons. She opens the door a little wider and leans against the framework. “You’re never going to be able to make this work, Zeth,” she informs me.

“And why’s that?”

“Because you’re a control freak, and participating in therapy means you have to hand over control to another person. Or at least concede that someone else might be better equipped to deal with a situation than you are.”

I haven’t thought of it like that before, but I suppose she’s right. Maybe that’s why I was so fucking offended when she tried to bribe me into her session room the first time I came back into Sloane’s life. “I can admit you’re qualified to help me. Isn’t that enough?”

She narrows her eyes at me. Folds her arms across her chest. “Maybe.  Wait here.” She backs away, not turning her focus from me until she’s disappeared into the shadows of her unlit apartment. I do as she says and don’t move a muscle. When she returns, I can’t keep the smile from my face. She’s got a Taser. She holds it up so I can see it clearly. “If we’re going to do this, I’m going to have this on me at all times. You understand that I will shoot you and call the cops without a second thought, right?”

“Yes. I understand.”

“All right, then. You can come inside.”

To be honest, I’m a little surprised she’s agreeing to this. If I were in her position, I probably wouldn’t have even opened the door. She melts into the shadows again, and I follow her into her apartment, my movements very fucking slow, and very fucking considered. I’ve never been tagged with a Taser before, but I can’t imagine it’s any fun. Newan hits a light somewhere inside the apartment, and her cold, sterile little world comes to life under a series of halogen spotlights. She jerks her head toward a massive couch, which has been parked right in front of a vast wall of glass. No sign of a TV. It’s as though the sweeping view of the city in the distance, visible through the floor-to-ceiling windows, has negated the requirement for such a thing. I stalk through the apartment, my mouth aching from the effort of keeping myself from smirking as Newan trains the Taser squarely on my chest. I shrug out of my jacket, mainly so she can see I’m just wearing a T-shirt and I’m not packing anything under the leather, and then I slump down onto the couch.

Newan sidles past me and perches on the edge of an arty, thoroughly uncomfortable-looking armchair. If the chair were a person, it would be a supermodel—far too skinny and far too pretentious. “So what do you want to talk about?” Newan asks.

“Aren’t you supposed to tell me?”

She rolls her eyes. I bet this woman was such a spoiled brat in high school. “Zeth, it’s midnight. This is hardly your typical session, okay? Let’s cut to the chase.”

“All right.” I fix my eyes on her, wondering how she’s going to take this. I haven’t told anyone about the darkness that plagues me. Not a single soul on the face of the planet. I’ve imagined the reaction of others enough times, though. Disgust. Horror. Pity. Pity is the worst. “I have nightmares,” I tell her. “And I’m often violent when I wake from them.”

“And what happens in these nightmares?” she asks. The change in her is subtle enough, but I see it a mile away—she suddenly becomes a doctor, albeit a highly suspicious, cautious doctor, instead of a woman holding a grudge. The way she asks about my nightmares is so perfunctory, so clipped and clinical, that it’s almost easy to tell her. Almost.

“I’m asleep in my bed,” I tell her. “I’m young. I don’t know how old.”