But the best times had been when Zack came home from school. They didn’t get out much. He helped her with cleaning the rooms so she’d finish early in the day and then they’d spend the afternoon and evening in her little room watching the tiny television, snuggled up together on the twin bed. Dreaming of the future. Making plans for when Anna-Grace completed high school and Zack was drafted to the pros.

He’d promised her the world, but she had only wanted one thing. Him. His love.

And in the end, none of it had been real.

Despite her best efforts, a tear slid hotly down her cheek. Instead of wiping it away, she drew up her knees, wrapped her arms around her legs and buried her face against her thighs as more tears fell.

She should hate him. But despite saying so, despite the fact that she should utterly despise him, she was still in love with the boy she once knew. She grieved the loss of a dream as if he had truly died. And in essence he had. Because the young man she’d loved as she would never love another would never have done something so horrific.

What had caused him to turn on her? Had he met someone at college?

What he’d done was insane! Most people simply broke up with their girlfriend and moved on without thought or remorse. His actions implied a deep and abiding . . . hatred. As if he’d wanted her to pay for and suffer for some unforgivable sin.

What could she possibly have done to make him despise her so much that he would go to such great lengths to retaliate?

And why did he now so violently deny having done anything wrong and pretend his innocence? Did he fear reprisal? Or did he merely seek to undermine her and make it appear that she was crazy and delusional?

How could he seem so . . . sincere . . . in his claim of having searched for her the entire twelve years that had passed? Dear God, could he possibly want . . . forgiveness? Did he seek atonement for his sins? Did he feel guilty for what he’d done?

The thought that he would think for a minute that she could possibly forgive such a betrayal made bile rise in her throat, burning as she swallowed it back down.

And yet, he seemed so . . . haunted. No one could fake the pain she’d seen in his eyes nor the shadows present in them. He acted as though she had hurt him. And he seemed so sincere.

She shook her head. He was a consummate actor. Hadn’t he already proved that? She couldn’t allow herself to be sucked into his twisted world. If she ever doubted what he truly was, all she had to do was go back to that terrifying day when she’d been attacked, violated and discarded like trash.

More tears fell as she squeezed her eyes shut against the painful memories. They’d laughed at her. Told her how pathetic she was. That someone like her would never be good enough for Zack.

And God help her, when she’d been blasted by their thoughts, when they’d consumed her as if playing out in real time, she’d learned the horrifying and devastating truth.

Zack had instigated it all.

A forceful knock on the door startled her so much she nearly fell off the toilet.

“Gracie? Gracie, are you all right? What’s going on in there? Do you need my help?”

She hastily scrubbed at her face, but before she could respond, the door burst open and Zack filled the doorway, his expression grim and worried. Then he evidently saw what she’d tried hard to conceal and his entire face softened.

He knelt on the floor of the small, enclosed space and took her hands.

“Hey, are you all right?” he asked gently. “Are you hurting? Do you need help getting back to bed?”

She closed her eyes again, shutting out his image. He’d aged well, although his eyes had changed. They looked older, haunted, as though he’d endured hell. As though he had grieved—was still grieving. But why?

Her head pounded, and she ached, but it had nothing to do with her injuries and bruises. Some hurts went beyond the physical. Some ran soul-deep and did far more damage than those inflicted by her attackers.

Those injuries and hurts would heal, would go away and be gone as if they’d never occurred. But the hurt Zack had inflicted would never go away, would never cease to hurt, and she’d never recover from them.

“Gracie, talk to me.”

She opened her eyes to see his narrowed eyes blazing with concern. God, there was nothing she could do. No way for her to avoid him.

“I-I’m okay,” she stammered out.

“You don’t look okay,” he muttered.

“Look, Zack, this is hard for me. Can you blame me? After what you did? How can you sit there and look at me and expect me to act as though nothing ever happened? God, are you some kind of sociopath?”

She choked the last of her statement out and then angrily brushed at new tears that slipped down her cheeks. Damn it. She hated being so vulnerable in front of him, of him seeing her so weak. Hated that old wounds were once again raw and bleeding, as though they’d never truly healed. And she supposed they hadn’t. They never would. She could lie to herself, be firmly in denial just so she could endure each day, but in the end, nothing had changed. She could never get back all that she had lost.

His lips thinned and his jaw ticked. Anger blazed in his eyes and it looked very much like he wanted to say something but he remained silent. Then he rose to his feet and simply reached over and carefully picked her up.

Ignoring her surprised protests, he carried her back into the hospital room and laid her on the bed. Then he arranged and plumped her pillow, briskly fixing her bedding as if the incident in the bathroom hadn’t occurred.

When he was done, he pushed her hair from her face and forehead, his fingers lingering against her skin. His expression grew sad and distant. It looked very much like tears welled but she had to be imagining that.

He trailed a fingertip down her cheekbone as though he couldn’t resist touching her in some way. She should shrink away. She should be repulsed. And yet she closed her eyes, trying to keep her own tears at bay. Hadn’t she cried enough? At what point would the past cease to make her cry?

His touch took her to another time, a sweeter, happier time when they were together and she was convinced they’d be together forever. Before she lost everything that mattered to her. Before her life was destroyed and she’d been left to pick up the pieces alone and shattered.

But when he leaned down and pressed his lips to her forehead, it was simply too much. She turned away from him, the tears coming faster.

He let out a sound of pain, as though he were the one wounded. She wanted to laugh—or cry more—over the irony. He hadn’t suffered as she had.