His voice may not have been intimidating, but him—physically...

“Yeah,” he says casually, taking a step closer, his huge frame covering me. “You definitely need help.”

“I can’t get this open,” I stammer, unable to tear my gaze away from him.

His hand reaches up and covers mine. I do everything I can to hold still. To not pull away. To not punch him in the dick like I’d been told to do if I felt uncomfortable.

He moves both our hands to the box on the left. “That’s because you’re trying to open mine.”

My eyes widen, and my cheeks flame with embarrassment. “Sorry.”

He shrugs and rests a shoulder on the wall. “It happens.” Looking down, he shoves his hands in his pockets. “Are you new...in the building, I mean. You’re my new across the hall neighbor?” He shakes his head at himself and it makes me relax a little. Like I’m not the only awkward person having this conversation.

“I guess,” I tell him, pretending to be occupied with the content of my mailbox. There’s nothing in there. After shutting it, I glance at him quickly. “I’m Madison.”

He just smiles and nods.

I take that as my cue to leave and head over to the elevator.

He comes up next to me as we both wait. “I’m Ky,” he finally says.

Ky.

The doors open and I step in. He doesn’t—what he does is stare at me.

I swallow nervously. “Um, are you coming up?”

“Yeah...” He shakes his head again.

We spend the ride to the third floor in complete silence.

When the doors open, he rushes out and holds them in place, waiting for me to step out. Which I do—because I’m not eighty years old—I can get out of an elevator just fine. Still, I smile at him, no matter how fake it may look.

He just smiles back.

So here we are—two strangers standing in the hall—smiling stupidly at each other.

“Bye!” he almost shouts, walking past me and to his apartment, which just happens to be opposite mine.

Great, I think to myself. First person I meet out in the real world and he may be crazy.

That makes two of us.

I enter my apartment and sit on the couch, staring at the wall.

I don’t know what to do. Or where to go. The freedom’s too overwhelming.

Madison: I met a Ky.

Sara: Good.

Madison: I miss you.

Sara: Me too.

4

KY

PULLING MY EYES away from the certificates hanging on the wall, I look back at my therapist. “Is that your real name?”

She smiles, and I can tell immediately why Jackson found it necessary to tell me that I’d like her. She’s in her late twenties with bleached blonde hair and the type of leathery skin that hinted that she spent way too much time in the sun. Her tits were huge. Fake, but huge. She was hot...if you were sixteen and didn’t have any standards. Or if you were Jackson.

Her bright red lips curve even higher as she looks over at me, making a show of uncrossing and recrossing her long legs. She squares her shoulders—I suppose trying to maintain some form of professionalism.

I look away.

She finally answers. “My parents were on crack,” she says, an amused lilt to her tone.

“Cinnamon Aroma? That can’t be real.”

“I couldn’t make that up if I wanted to.”

I kick my legs out and slump further into the chair.

She clears her throat. “So why are you here, Ky?”

“Isn’t it your job to tell me that?”

“Do you want to be here?”

With a sigh, I roll my eyes and sit up a little. “I’m sure you know why I’m here. You probably have an entire file Detective Davis gave you. Do you see cops too? Or just criminals?”

“Both,” she answers flatly.

I nod slowly.

“Is that important to you?”

“Do you see Jax?”

“Who?”

“Detective Davis.”

“Doctor patient confidentiality.”

“Right,” I lean my elbows on my knees; “I’ll take that as a yes.”

She sighs. “So you have problems controlling your temper?”

“You got all that from the two minutes I’ve been here or from my file?”

“This will go a lot easier if you actually answer my questions. That’s how this works. I ask, you answer. We find your issues together, and we work through it.”

I raise my eyebrows. “You’re saying I have issues? You don’t even know me.”

“You’re here, right?”

I avert my gaze and look at the frames on the walls again.

She adds, “Can you tell me why you think you’re so angry?”

My gaze trails back to her. “Again, shouldn’t that be your job?” I mumble.

Her eyes move slowly from mine down to the notepad on her lap as she jots down God knows what. After a minute of listening to the pen scrape against the paper, she places both of them on the couch next to her. Then she crosses her arms and says, “My first crush was Taylor Hanson. You know that boy band, Hanson? You might be a little young. Anyway, the middle one. When I saw their first music video, I thought he was a girl and didn’t think twice about them. When I found out he was a boy, I started to pay attention. Of course, crushing on a guy you thought was a girl can do bad things to a pre-teen’s sexual assumption. It’s safe to say I questioned my sexuality for a good year after. I tried to like the older brother, he was more manly, but I kept going back to Taylor—”