Sipping my third cup of coffee, I stood at the window in Dr. Patel’s office. The door slid shut with a soft whoosh, and the doc’s perfume wafted to my nose. “Why is there a statue of Moses in front of the building?”

Her reflection took a seat behind the desk. “Still can’t sleep, Logan?”

I turned to face her, shoulders resting against the glass. “Does that mean there isn’t a statue of Moses outside?”

I was only half-kidding, since it was entirely possible I was hallucinating. In order to give the evaluations my best shot, I’d quit using alcohol as a sleep aid when I got to Los Angeles. So now I hadn’t slept in three days. I napped … if I was lucky. Not always on purpose. Last night I’d fallen asleep in the middle of dinner. And when I woke up a couple of hours later, I was face down in a plate of pizza.

“Logan?”

Patel’s voice snapped me out of my fog, and I found her motioning to the chair in front of her desk.

I took a seat while she put some images on a lighted board on the wall. “I’ve got some of your test results.” Grabbing a file, she came around to my side of the desk, then slid a hip onto the wood. “Would you like to go over them?”

Patel also had a degree in psychology, I’d learned. So she did this thing where she made it seem like everything was my choice when really it wasn’t.

I shifted uncomfortably. “Sure.”

Folding her hands in front of her, she smiled. “You don’t have a brain injury. That’s very good news.”

When her gaze shifted to my bobbing leg, I promptly clamped a hand over my knee to make it stop. My lack of sleep combined with the caffeine and being here had me ready to crawl out of my skin. “How so?”

“In the absence of an injury, then it is possible to learn to read.”

I sensed a “but.” It was something in her eyes. Slowly, she pulled out an 8x10 card from a stack on her desk and held it up. “What is this word?”

Three letters, none of them familiar. I looked away. “I can’t read. Not having a brain injury isn’t going to change that.”

“Okay then, something simpler. Let’s start with the letters.”

I brought my gaze back to hers without bothering to hide my disdain. “I don’t know what the letters say—” my tone started low and quickly gained volume, “—because I can’t read them!”

Patel didn’t flinch. Impressive, since I could feel my nostrils flaring and the scowl coating my features.

“This isn’t reading. Try again.” She tapped the card with a blunt nail. “Look at the letters.”

Pushing out of my seat with enough force to make the chair wobble, I gripped my hair. “I don’t need to look at the letters to know I can’t read them.”

The picture of control, Patel placed the card face down in front of her. “That’s where you’re wrong. We did an advanced battery of tests. You recognize symbols. Your memory is flawless. Your IQ, extremely high.”

Somewhere in the middle of her speech I’d stopped pacing. “How can I have a high IQ if I can’t read?”

“Problem solving. There’s a formula we use. It filters out any reading questions.”

This was almost worse. I wasn’t stupid, but I couldn’t recognize any letters. It didn’t make sense. But then, it had never made sense. Flopping back into the chair, I rested my elbows on my knees and buried my head in my hands.

God, I was tired. So tired. I just wanted …

Tori.

I wanted Tori. And sleep. I hadn’t slept right since she left. She stole my sleep. My sanity. My control.

If I could just hear her voice …

But she wouldn’t answer my calls. So that was that.

Inhaling slowly, I pulled myself upright. “So what’s my problem?”

Patel pondered for a moment and then held the card up again.

Tap Tap Tap, went her fingernail over the first letter. “One more time. What letter is this?”

Flinching, I shook my head. “I don’t know.”

Tap Tap Tap. “Right here. What letter is this?”

“I don’t … I don’t …”

Tap Tap Tap. “Concentrate. What letter is this?”

The card swam out of focus, but the tapping continued, like small caliber gunshots exploding inside my head.

And then another voice. Male, gruff. I could smell his cologne. And cigarette smoke. And coffee.

Concentrate, son. You want to help us, don’t you? Just tell us what you saw. Give us a letter.

“I can’t,” I repeated, my gaze on the pavement. On his boots. And the blood spatter.

Son, if you want to help your mama, you need to concentrate and give us a letter.

“Logan?”

“Logan?”

Overwhelmed by images, flashing lights, and voices I couldn’t place, I snapped my gaze to Patel.

“I can’t.” My voice was small. Insignificant. And I hated it. I hated her. Why the fuck wouldn’t she stop with the tapping?

Patel’s brows drew together and for the first time I noted pity in her eyes. She replaced the card on the stack, drew in a breath, then stood. “That’s enough of that for a moment.” She motioned to a sitting area. “Let’s move over here and talk a bit.”

Since I’d do anything to put some distance between her and the cards, I took a seat on the sofa while Patel opted for the chair.

“You have primary dyslexia, to be sure,” she began, “but that isn’t the reason you can’t read.”

I sank against the cushions. “What is it then?”

She sighed, shaking her head. “If I had to venture a guess, I’d say it’s trauma related.”

“But you said—”

“Not the kind of trauma resulting from an injury. Emotional trauma.”

My skin prickled, all the warmth leeching from my pores.

Regarding me with a soft smile that offered no reassurance, Patel picked up a notepad from the table.

“Perhaps it’s time we talk about your mother.”