He wraps it around me, scratches his jaw, and then he walks out of the bathroom and closes the door behind him.

I stand for a moment, staring at the closed door in front me, wondering what the hell that was all about. Seriously. This man is so utterly confusing. At any one time I rarely have a clue what’s going on inside his head. That’s half good, half bad, I think. A part of me wants to know what he’s thinking, but then another part of me would be too scared to catch an inside glimpse into the machinations of Zeth Mayfair’s head. Who knows what’s lurking in the dark corners of his mind? I’m already scared witless by the monsters that have begun taking up residence in my own.

I hear Zeth’s bedroom close and I know he’s thrown some clothes on and gone to check on Lacey. I pin the towel tightly around my body and head back to my room—when did it become my room?—just in time to catch my cell phone ringing.

I’ve had the thing switched off for days but I plugged it in to charge last night, wanting to face the music. I’d been a little surprised when it hadn’t blown up on the spot due to the influx of missed calls and texts. Worried even. No contact from work? No contact from the police? What did that mean? I did, admittedly, have a million text messages from my parents asking if I was okay. Plenty of shots of them on the beach, enjoying the vacation I’ve bankrolled—flights, hotel, bar tab, room service, the works—to get them the hell out of dodge. My mother spent pretty much every last cent of their life savings trying to find Alexis, so they would never have been able to afford it themselves. I suspect my dad wouldn’t have spent everything they had if it hadn’t seemed to keep my mother content. I’m beginning to suspect a lot of things about my dad. His reaction to my story about where Alexis has been the last two years was off-the-charts weird. As soon as they get back and Charlie Holsan’s out of the picture, I’m making the trip to L.A. to have a little word with him. But in the meantime—

I pick my cell phone up off the bedside table, frowning at the name on the screen: Olly.

Oliver Massey: my ever-increasingly concerned colleague and sort-of best friend at the hospital. Should I answer it? I remember his words when I saw him last, after the crash that ruined my car—Just…the moment you realize that you’re in way over your head, come see me, okay? Don’t leave it too late—and I instantly feel terrible. Oliver and I used to catch drinks after work once or twice a week. He’d bring in leftovers for lunch for us when he knew it was bolognese day at the canteen, because he knew how much I hated bolognese. We used to be a whole lot closer than we are right now; I’ve basically ignored him ever since Zeth came onto the scene. If our roles were reversed, I’d definitely be concerned about him. And mad at him, too. I’ve left him to imagine whether I’m dead or alive for days. I answer the call.

“Hey.”

I’m met with silence. I begin to think I actually didn’t pick up in time, but just as I’m about to check the screen to see if it’s connected, there’s a loud, exasperated sigh on the other end of the line. “Hey? Hey?”

Oh, boy. He sounds pissed. Seriously pissed. “I take it you’ve been trying to get hold of me, then?”

I can practically feel the tension radiating off Oliver down the connection. It makes my skin prickle. “Trying to get hold of you? Sloane, what the fuck is wrong with you? I’ve been tearing this city apart looking for you!”

“You—you have?”

“Yes! Of course I fucking—” He stops short, and I can imagine the frustration on his face. I’ve seen him too angry to speak before; it’s pretty frightening. “Sloane, you are the most thoughtless, careless person I’ve ever met, you know that?”

“I’m sorry, okay? I know I should have called you, but—”

“No! Fuck.” He breathes in, taking a moment. “It doesn’t matter you didn’t call me. Well, it does, but that’s not what I mean. How long were you in med school? How hard did you fight to get a residency at St Peter’s? Huh?”

The impact of his words hit home with the force of a bullet. Shit.

“Sloane? How long? Because I know this has cost me years and years of no fucking sleep and gallons of my blood, sweat, and tears, and I’ve been slacking off compared to how hard you’ve been working. So were you thinking about that when you ran away from a fucking DEA agent, Sloane? Were you caring about everything you were throwing away? Because I’m seriously at a loss over here.”

He’s right. He’s absolutely right, and yet I couldn’t have made another choice. Not with Charlie Holsan stalking the hallways of the hospital. Not after he’d tried to force me off the road in his pretentious Aston Martin in an attempt to get Zeth’s attention. Not after he’d poisoned Nanette Richards, a completely innocent person, and killed her in an attempt to capture my attention.

“I know you’re mad right now,” I say. “But I made the only choice I could at the time. I wasn’t safe there. And that agent shot my sister, Olly. I was kind of spun out. I sure as hell didn’t want to go anywhere with her.”

“Your sister? I thought your sister was dead?”

It feels like the contents of my stomach are boiling now. I feel sick. I feel so, so sick and on the verge of crying. Of course Oliver thinks Alexis is dead. That’s what I told him and everyone else in a vain attempt at getting myself some closure, back when I thought I was never going to see her again. Back when things were simpler and the only problem in my life was suffering the loss of a kidnapped sibling. The thought flashes through me—maybe it would have been better if I’d never found Alexis. I’m shocked by the pain I feel. Living with the uncertainty of whether she actually was or wasn’t alive was brutal, but her betrayal is almost twice as painful.