“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I say. I don’t look at him. “I have to go. I’m sorry.” I yank my skirt down and reach back to zip it. My fingers shake as I button my blouse. I don’t bother with my bra, but hold my jacket closed with one hand as I hurry toward his foyer.

“Nikki—”

There’s pain and confusion in his voice, and I feel like shit because I’m the reason it’s there and he doesn’t deserve this. I should have cut this off sooner. Hell, I should have cut it off last night.

“I’m sorry,” I say again, even though it’s lame. I’m at the elevator, and the doors open the instant I press the button. I’m relieved; I was afraid I’d have to wait for it. But then I realize that Damien is on the premises, so of course his elevator is going to be parked wherever he is.

I step inside and stand erect until the doors shut tight. Then I melt against the glass panel and let the tears flow. I have fifty-seven floors to get them out of my system. No, sixty, because my car’s on the third parking level.

When the car eases to a stop, I hastily wipe my face and stand up straight, sliding my mask back into place as I fluff my hair and flash a quick smile at the mirror. Perfect.

But my act isn’t necessary. There’s no one waiting when the doors open. Still, I keep the mask on and the act up as I make the long walk across the Stark Tower side of the parking structure to the area beneath the bank building wherein C-Squared is housed. My car is on the far side, and I’m walking fast now, because I can feel the cracks all over me. I’m going to shatter soon, I know it, and I need to be in my car when I do.

It’s right there, parked opposite the stairwell. The whole corner is dark and despite being open, it makes me twitchy. I reported it to the property manager my first day, but so far they’ve yet to put in a new bulb. Once again, I remind myself to ask Carl for another assigned space, because this corner is too damned creepy.

I hurry to the car and shove the key in the lock—because my Honda’s almost fifteen years old, and I don’t have a keychain remote. I yank the door open, then slide inside, letting the familiar sounds and smells surround me. I tug on the heavy door and the instant it slams shut, I lose it. Tears stream down my face, and I alternately clutch and pound on the steering wheel. Hitting and slamming and pummeling until the heel of my hand is red and raw and sore. I’m shouting, repeating a chorus of “no, no, no,” but I don’t even realize it until my voice fades, raw and raspy.

Finally my tears are spent, but my body doesn’t seem to realize it. I convulse, hiccuping painfully as I try to breathe in and out and gather some control.

It takes a while, but I finally quit shaking. My hand is unsteady as I try to insert the key into the ignition. I can’t manage. Metal scrapes against metal. I drop the key ring. Fumbling, I bend down to pick it up again, only to whack my forehead on the wheel. I clutch the keys tight and curse, and pound my fist against the wheel one more time.

The tears are welling again, and I breathe deep. It’s too much, too fast. The move, the job, Damien.

I want to crawl out of my own skin. I want to escape. I want—

I grab a handful of my skirt and thrust it up so that the material is gathered at my hips, exposing a triangle of panties and my bare thighs above the stockings.

Don’t.

Just a little. Just this once.

Don’t.

But I do. I spread my legs and press the key into the soft flesh of my inner thigh. Once upon a time, I kept a knife on my key ring. I wish I still had it. No. No, I don’t.

The key’s teeth bite into my skin, but it’s nothing. Mosquito bites. I need more if I’m going to keep the storm at bay—and it’s that realization of my need that hits me like a slap in the face.

Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God, what the fuck am I doing?

Before I can talk myself out of it, I shove open the door and toss the keys out into the dim parking garage. I hear them skitter across the asphalt. I don’t see where they land.

I sit there breathing deeply, telling myself that’s not who I am. I haven’t cut for over three years. I fought, and I won.

I’m not that girl anymore.

Except of course, I am. I’ll always be that girl. I can wish all I want, and I can run across the country, but those scars don’t go away, and they won’t stay hidden forever.

I guess I learned that the hard way. That’s why I ran from Damien, isn’t it? And that’s why I’ll keep on running.

A wave of loneliness crashes over me, and I think about what Ollie said. About how nothing would change. About how I could call him anytime I needed him.

I need him now.

I reach into my purse and pull out my phone. I have Ollie on speed dial and I punch in the number. It rings. Once. Twice. On the third ring, a woman’s voice answers. Courtney.

“Hello? Hello, who is this?”

I forgot to give Ollie my new phone number. I’m not in his contacts, and she has no idea who’s on the other end of the line.

I hang up, breathing hard. After a moment, I dial another number. This time, Jamie’s voice mail answers.

“Never mind,” I say, forcing a cheer into my voice that I don’t feel. “I’m going shopping and thought you might want to meet up. But no big.”

I hang up thinking that shopping sounds like a damn fine idea. Retail therapy won’t cure the world’s ills, but it works pretty well to take your mind off them. On that point, at least, I agree with my mother.

I take a deep breath, then another. I’m calmer now, ready to go. Ready to crank the radio up on a classic country station and let George Strait sing about how his problems are so much worse than mine.

I glance out my window, but don’t see the keys. With a sigh, I push open my door and get out of the car, adjusting my skirt as I do. I’d thrown them hard, so they’re probably yards away near the dark green Mercedes or the massive Cadillac SUV. The only flashlight I have is the app on my iPhone, and I hope it’ll be enough.

My heels click on the asphalt as I cross the garage to the Mercedes. The area with the Mercedes and the Cadillac isn’t as dark as the corner with my car, but it’s still dim, and I frown as I contort my body and shine the light, trying to look under the two cars without getting down on my knees and putting huge runs in my stockings.

It takes a while, but after circling the cars twice, I finally see the keys hidden in a shadow behind the Mercedes’ back tire.

I snatch them up, then freeze when I see movement in my peripheral vision. There, near the stairwell by my car, I see the shadow of a man.