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  “Maybe not.” He didn’t look calm, exactly, but he didn’t move at all, accepting whatever I gave him. “But it wasn’t right. It would have meant they won.”

  All the fury and energy dropped out of me in an instant, and I flopped back to the bed, choking on tearless sobs. “They’ve already won.”

  He reached out and held my upper arm urgently, the way he had back in the basement room, before the worst of it had happened. “They have not won. They haven’t. And we can’t let them win.”

  I felt his urgency—it spoke to me—but there was nothing left inside me to deal with it. I just gasped, “Why won’t you just leave me alone?”

  His intense eyes held mine, vividly blue in the florescent light of the room. There was no way I could look away. There was no way I could even breathe. “I can’t. I can’t leave you alone, Diana. I failed you once, and I’m not going to fail you again.”

  I tried to be hard. I wanted to be hard, because maybe then it all wouldn’t hurt so much. But I couldn’t be hard enough. He was hurting too, and I didn’t want him to feel like me. “You didn’t fail me. You tried.”

  “Not hard enough.”

  There wasn’t anything I could say to that.

  Three

  After the suicide attempt, I went to a residential treatment center.

  It was an exclusive facility with the best doctors, psychiatrists, and counselors, and it was housed in a luxurious facility on a gorgeous piece of land about an hour outside the city. My dad called up a few people, and they all recommended the same place. It was like a resort hotel with round-the-clock support and therapy.

  I tried to get better.

  A lot of the time, I was fighting off the demons—reliving horrific memories that I couldn’t always keep pushed into a tight little compartment of my mind. But, when the demons weren’t filling my mind, I knew I didn’t want to be the kind of person to give up, to give in, to let something like this defeat me. If there was some way to heal myself, then I would try.

  But, even at the Center, with multiple sessions every day with psychiatrists, counselors, or support groups, I felt like I was playing a part. I was learning the things to say that would keep the people around me from worrying. Often I said them because I wanted them to be true.

  I slept in a luxurious suite, ate delicious food, had peaceful yoga sessions at sunrise, afternoon swims, and jewelry-making sessions in the afternoon. I tried to talk through what happened and express feelings that were supposed to be honest.

  I wasn’t numb anymore, but I didn’t want it to hurt with every breath, and I didn’t want to try to kill myself again. But it didn’t get better the way I thought it should. It didn’t start to fade the way I was expecting with such intensive treatment. And I still woke up with nightmares every night.

  But it was better than before. It felt like I was living in a bubble, disconnected from the rest of the world. It was easier and it was safer because, any time I felt the demons rise up, there was someone nice I could talk to or to show me how to properly breathe through the downward-facing-dog pose.

  My dad was paying, and they kept telling him I wasn’t progressing the way they’d liked to see, so I stayed on, week after week.

  On the Friday of the first week, I was doing a second yoga session in the evening, since I liked how the breathing and stretches helped to empty my mind of painful thoughts. I was wrapping up when I saw Cali, one of the assistants, waving at me to come over to her.

  She was a kind woman in her fifties who still had an almost youthful spirit of fun. I liked her, as well as I could like anyone at that point.

  “You have a visitor,” she said, looking excited. “He’s waiting in the lobby.”

  There were certain times during the week when visitors were allowed, and Friday evening was one of those times. But I frowned, since I’d neither expected nor wanted to visit with anyone today. “My dad?”

  My dad called fairly regularly, but I’d thought he was traveling again for work.

  “No. It’s a young man. A very fine-looking young man.”

  I had no idea who it was. Absolutely no clue. I had a few male friends, but no one who would show up here without calling. My only guess was that maybe one of my old boyfriends was stupid enough to show up here to comfort me.

  There was nothing to do but go see who it was. If I didn’t want to talk to him, then I would just send him away. There was plenty of security around to make sure he left.

  I wiped my face with a towel and grabbed my hoodie as I walked with Cali through the main building toward the lobby. I wore a stretchy t-shirt and yoga pants and was plenty warm already, but I put on the hoodie as I walked so I wouldn’t feel so exposed.

  I caught a glimpse of myself in a mirror as I walked and almost didn’t recognize myself.

  I have blond hair that falls all the way down my back. I used to go to a salon every few weeks for highlights, manicure, brow shaping, and whatever else I decided I needed to look beautiful. But I hadn’t gone for almost three months, so my hair wasn’t as light as it used to be. I also used to blow-dry it very straight, but I hadn’t bothered lately, so it fell in slightly frizzy waves that I’d pulled back into a loose ponytail.

  I hadn’t put on any makeup since I’d come to the Center, since it didn’t seem worth the effort, so my face was slightly damp with perspiration, and my eyes—which are plain old brown—looked smaller than usual without any mascara.

  I was never a beauty queen, but everyone who knew me would always say that I invariably looked nice. I was as far from that as possible now.

  I didn’t mind. I didn’t feel like the same person, so it seemed right that I wouldn’t look like her.

  I jerked to a halt as I stepped into the lobby and saw who was waiting for me.

  Gideon was leaning against a wall, checking his smartphone. He wore a dark suit with his tie loosened slightly. It looked like he might have had a long day, but he still somehow appeared both masculine and powerful—just from the aura he exuded.

  I stared, swallowing hard, strangely terrified for some reason. For no good reason.

  “Is it all right?” Cali asked, looking at my face questioning. “He seemed so nice, and he showed his credentials. But I’ll send him away immediately if you don’t want to talk to him.”

  He looked over then and saw me. He immediately straightened up and smiled. There was a question in the smile, in his eyes, and he didn’t walk over toward me.

  And I had no idea—absolutely no idea—why this strong, handsome, good-hearted man was making such an effort to see me. Why he would even want to.

  “Diana?” Cali asked. “Is it all right?”

  “Yeah,” I said, swallowing over the hesitance. My anger at Gideon for keeping me from dying had been fleeting, temporary. I knew it was a good thing he’d done. He deserved nothing but my gratitude, and I wasn’t going to return his efforts with rudeness. “It’s fine. I can talk to him.”

  “Invite him to stay for dinner if he has the time,” Cali said before I started toward Gideon.

  “Hi,” I said as I approached, feeling awkward and confused and a little bit sick. I felt vaguely mortified about the last time I’d seen him—at how low a state he’d found me in—and he still made me remember that other night more than I could safely allow.

  “Hi.” He glanced down at me, in the kind of instinctive once-over that men always give women. “Did I interrupt something?”

  “No. I was just doing yoga. It was almost over.” I shifted from foot to foot. “What are you doing here?”

  His blue eyes were searching my face, and I had no idea what he would see there—except it might be more than I wanted him to see. “They said visitors were allowed on Friday evenings, so I thought I’d stop by to see you.”

  “It’s a long drive, just to stop by.”

  He gave a half-shrug. “I wasn’t doing anything else.”

  I stared up at him, wishing things were different, wishing I could respond to this
man in any sort of normal way. If we’d met six months ago, I might have been crazy about him.

  He cleared his throat. “It’s all right if you’d rather I just leave. I thought about calling first, but then I was afraid you’d say not to come.”

  “I would have.” I stuffed my hands in the pockets of my hoodie and looked down at the floor.

  “Do you want me to leave?”

  It was touch and go for a minute, since something inside me saw him as a danger, a threat to my very tentative stability. The demons rose up, causing a flash of panic as I felt again violent hands, the hard edge of a table against my stomach—and they almost pushed me into telling him to leave.

  But the part of me that remembered everything he’d done—recognized him as good—won out in the end. “You can stay,” I said at last. “Have you eaten? The food is great here. You could stay for dinner if you want.”

  He smiled again, a tension in his neck and shoulders relaxing. “Thanks. That would be great.”

  We were walking toward the dining room when I gave him a sidelong glance. He didn’t look anything like the man I’d first seen in that horrible room. None of his tattoos were visible, and the suit was good quality. “You’re all dressed up today.”

  “I came right from work.”

  “Really? Are you undercover in a bank or something?”

  He chuckled. “No. I’m still with organized crime, but I’ve been given what’s mostly a desk job.”

  “Really? So you’re not working undercover anymore?”

  “My cover was blown with the Albanians, so there’s nothing I can do there anymore. There’s plenty to be done that’s not undercover.”

  “But why did they put you behind a desk?”

  He didn’t answer immediately as we sat down at a pleasant table near the window.

  I wasn’t sure he was going to answer at all, so I prompted, “Why did they put you behind a desk, Gideon? It doesn’t seem like your kind of thing.”

  “It’s not,” he murmured, glancing away from me, out the window. “It won’t be forever. They’re just not convinced I’m ready for field work again yet.”

  “Oh.” I thought about that. “Psychologically, you mean?”

  He gave a huff of bitter amusement. “Yeah. That’s one way to put it.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry. But you know all of my issues, so you’re obviously dealing with things way better than me. It must have been really hard. Living that life for so long. Living with those...with them.” I shuddered as the vision of the men rose up before I pushed it back down. “I don’t know how you did it.”

  “It was hard. Being undercover like that tears you up in a lot of ways. Some guys have it worse than I did. Some guys just can’t deal.”

  I nodded, sipping the water in my glass since I had no idea what to say.

  He suddenly met my eyes. “But, for me, that night was the worst.”

  His words hit me hard. I don’t even know why. I felt shaky and didn’t try to speak.

  After that, we talked about lighter things. Politics and current events and the friend he had who was on the staff of a senator and had an inside scoop on all kinds of interesting gossip.

  After we ate, we walked around the garden and down the path through the wooded area on the property and around the pebble maze, which was supposed to be therapeutic somehow. We talked about books and movies and some of the people I’d met here at the Center and about his mother’s poodle.

  It was dark out, with an almost full moon. We’d stopped after finishing the maze and he was smiling down on me. His voice was warm, rich somehow, as he said, “You won’t believe how smart that dog is. She’s got my folks completely under her paw. If she wants something, she’ll go over and sit in front one of them and just stare, as if she can will it to happen with the power of her mind. They’ll go through everything she might want—to go outside, a treat, a belly rub—until they land on the one she actually wants.”

  His words had conjured up a detailed picture of that dog. I could imagine her with crystal clarity. And I laughed.

  I remember that moment vividly. It’s engraved in my mind.

  It was the first time I’d laughed in over two months. The first time I’d laughed since that night.

  ***

  He left soon afterwards. I walked with him back to the lobby and thanked him for coming by. I meant it. It was the first somewhat pleasant evening I’d had in ages.

  “Is it all right if I come by next week?” he asked. His eyes were resting on my face, but then they glanced away diffidently.

  “You don’t have to.”

  “I know I don’t have to. I want to. I’d like to, if it’s all right with you.”

  “Don’t you have something better to do on a Friday evening?”

  He gave me a half-smile. “Not really. I’ve been out of touch from everyone for almost a year. I have to build back up my social life.”

  I hadn’t even thought about that, but I realized it must be true. Going undercover the way he had must be brutal on relationships.

  I’d had a lot of time to think this week, and the knowledge had coalesced over the hours we’d spent together this evening. I knew what I was to him. A project. Something to fix. An assuaging of guilt, no matter how irrational that guilt might be. When he started to feel better, less guilty, more normal, then he wouldn’t keep coming around. He’d start his normal life again.

  That was okay. It was natural. I could hardly resent him for it. But, right now, maybe he was kind of lonely too, after living such a disconnected life.

  I certainly wasn’t going to refuse another evening of distraction from the reality I lived with now.

  “Okay. Yeah. If you want to come next week, that’s fine. No worries if you can’t, though.”

  “I’ll be here.”

  ***

  He came to visit me three Fridays in a row, and we always had dinner and walked around, talking about things that didn’t hurt me.

  On the fourth Friday, when I’d been at the Center for a month, I was expecting him to come again. He’d acted like he was planning on it. He hadn’t called or texted to say differently. So, at about seven that evening, I was waiting for him.

  He didn’t show up.

  I didn’t care if he was late, so I played a game on my phone as I waited in the lobby, but forty-five minutes later he still hadn’t shown up.

  Cali walked through and saw me waiting, so she came over to where I was sitting. “Your boyfriend is late.”

  I didn’t correct the “boyfriend” appellation. She’d used it once before, and she didn’t mean anything by it. She knew why I was here—what had happened to me three months ago—but she always treated me like an undamaged person.

  She would have teased any other girl about the handsome man who came to visit every Friday, and so she teased me too.

  I knew it was ridiculous. It was the farthest thing in the world from ever happening. I couldn’t even envision myself with a boyfriend—ever again. Plus, Gideon would stop coming by once he’d worked through his irrational guilt.

  Maybe he was already starting to do so. It was almost eight now, and he hadn’t shown up. He hadn’t even called.

  “Something must have come up,” I said casually, smiling in the way I’d gotten good at—that conveyed a semblance of pleasantness but gave absolutely nothing away. “He’s got a stressful job.”

  “I hope he didn’t have car trouble or something on the way over. It’s pretty awful out there.”

  It had been raining all day, but if he’d had car trouble he would have called. If he was held up at work, he would have called. If he’d gotten sick, he would have called.

  “I’m sure he’s fine. I’m going to go on up to my room to relax. Someone will let me know if he shows up?”

  “Of course.”

  I felt weird and shaky as I went up to my room. I sat on the side of my bed and stared at my silent phone.

  I could just call him a
nd ask if he was planning to come out tonight. That way I would know and could move on. I scrolled to his number and almost hit send.

  It didn’t do it, though. It wasn’t a big deal, and I wasn’t going to turn it into a big deal. There had been plenty of times in the past when friends didn’t stop by when I thought they would, and I’d always brushed it off as no big deal.

  This felt different because I didn’t have anything else noteworthy happening during the weeks, but I wasn’t going to blow it out of proportion.

  I couldn’t stop brooding about it, though.

  If Gideon had been planning to come out tonight and something had kept him from doing so, he would called to let me know. He probably just had something better come along. He was a good-looking, virile man. Women were probably chasing him all the time. He probably had a date tonight, and it just slipped his mind to call me.

  He was under no obligation to come visit me on Friday nights. Just because he had the last three weeks didn’t mean he had to every week. It wasn’t like we had a standing appointment. He could go out and have a good time. It was probably a good thing that he did.

  Trying to fix me wasn’t good for him. I knew it wasn’t good. I wasn’t his responsibility, and I couldn’t really be fixed.

  I kept telling myself this as I watched some TV.

  Eventually, though, I kept landing on a different explanation.

  What if he hadn’t just had something better to do? What if he hadn’t just forgotten to call?

  What if he was in trouble? What if something had happened?

  He had a potentially dangerous job, after all. Sure, he was evidently still sitting behind a desk most of the time, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t end up in danger.

  What if he was hurt...or worse?

  I tried to focus on the television and then I tried to play a mindless game on my tablet. None of it distracted me.

  Eventually, at almost ten, I was lying in a fetal position on my bed, trembling helplessly as I tried to control the fear.

  It was ridiculous. I shouldn’t be reacting this way. There was no reason to assume the sky was falling, just because Gideon had stood me up.