The moment we pull in front of the Crystal Lake Clinic, a ball of dread hits the pit of my stomach. The urge to tell Juan, the driver, to turn back pushes through me like a hurricane, but I harness it. I’ve come too far. As I climb out of the Mercedes—complete with a driver—Bryant LaClaire has kindly offered to chauffeur me around during my stay in Cabo, bitter bile burns the back of my throat. I shove it back down.

My sweaty hand opens the door, and I swing my legs out of the car. “I won’t be long,” I say to Juan, the Mexican driver who speaks English with barely an accent.

“Take your time.” He reclines his seat and leans his head back. “I have all the time in the world.”

I give him a small smile and slam the door shut. Outside the car, my feet are glued to the ground by fear. I force them to move, but they remain in place.

Pulling in a deep, shaky breath, I try again and succeed this time. I have to do this. I put one foot in front of the other, headed for the sparkling white wrought-iron gates.

A guard in uniform, sitting inside a small glass cabin, waves me over.

With a shaky smile pasted on my face, I head in his direction. He slides a square glass window to one side and leans forward, shoving a matchstick into one side of his lips and glares at me. No smile in sight.

“Good morning.” I swallow hard. “Do you speak English or French?”

He folds his arms on the pristine white counter. “This part of town is frequented by people from all over the world. English is common.” He squares his shoulders. “Me, I speak English, Spanish, French, Italian. Have your pick.” A layer of sarcasm edges his voice.

My cheeks heat up as I glance back at the car that brought me here.

Juan looks to be having a nap—eyes closed, arms folded in front of his chest. I wish he could help me out, but that’s not his job. I have a feeling this guard is about to give me a hard time. Hating myself for feeling insecure, I study his face for a moment, stringing words together inside my mind before releasing them.

The guard’s face is decorated by lines, marking it like a map. His face is a mask of intimidation. If their job here is to keep people out, this man is the perfect guy for the job. But I can’t let him get to me, even if he’s making an already uncomfortable situation that much more complicated.

“I’m here to see Mr. Lance LaClaire, please,” I continue in English. My father is French and my mother is British, and I’ve spent most of my twenty-nine years in Paris, but I’ve always preferred English to French.

The man clears his throat, removes the stick from the corner of his mouth. “Name, please.” His baritone voice sends chills of apprehension down my spine.

“Alice Dupuis.” I chew the corner of my lip then stop the annoying habit. My insecurities must stay hidden. I lift my chin to appear confident, but deep down, I kind of wish he would refuse me entry into the facility. There’s nothing I want more than to disappear from Lance LaClaire’s life.

The guard pulls out a leather-bound folder and flips it open. Removing the matchstick from his lips, his beady eyes scan the pages one after the other. Then he looks up with a satisfied smile this time. “You’re not listed. Are you a family member?”

I wipe the palms of my hands on my jeans. “I’m ... a family friend. Mr. Bryant LaClaire, his brother, knows I’m here.”

“Mr. Bryant LaClaire isn’t with you, is he?” He slams the book shut. “I can’t help you.” He pushes the matchstick back into his mouth. “Unregistered visitors are not permitted entry.”

A frustrated laugh escapes my lips. “So, you’re just going to send me away?”

“I’m sorry, there’s nothing else I can do.” He chews on his stick.

I gaze through the gates at the sprawling lush gardens surrounding the property. People are sitting on benches surrounding a huge water fountain. “Is there anyone I can talk to—a supervisor, perhaps?” It’s a struggle to keep my voice controlled, but I try. “I really need to talk to Mr. LaClaire. It’s important.”

“If it’s that important, why isn’t your name on the list?” He leans back in his chair, bushy eyebrows drawn. “This is my territory. At these gates, I’m the supervisor.”

My jaw clenches. Why the hell is he making this so difficult? Does he treat everyone who’s not on the list the same way? I’m aware this is a well-known facility, frequented by celebrities and other public figures wanting to kick all kinds of habits, but come on. Do I look like a threat?

He glances at my large, printed tote bag. The realization hits me like a brick of stones. I chuckle. “You don’t think I have a camera inside my bag, do you? Do you think I’m a journalist?”

“Are you?” I shake my head. “I promise you that I’m not. Like I said before, I’m a family friend of the LaClaires. I can prove it with a phone call to Bryant LaClaire, if you like.”

“I like.” His eyes tell me he doesn’t believe a word I’m saying.

“Fine.” I reach into my bag and pull out my cell phone. My eyes on his lined face, I dial Bryant’s phone number. But before he picks up, a second guard approaches the cabin and exchanges a few words in Spanish with Mr. Lined Face, whose eyebrows shoot to his forehead and his whole expression changes, an unexpected smile smoothing some of the lines. A genuine smile this time. He gestures for me to end the call, which I’m glad to do since it went to mailbox anyway.

The second guard gives me a kind nod and leaves the cabin.

“My apologies, Miss Dupuis. My colleague made me aware that you are in fact who you say you are. Dr. Darius Drew, Mr. LaClaire’s doctor, received a call from Mr. Bryant LaClaire himself.” He pulls out the stick. “Your visit is confirmed. I apologize for the delay. I do hope you understand that we must be vigilant at all times as this place is constantly bombarded by people with wrong intentions. We have some important people here.”

A tight smile stretches my lips. “That’s fine. Just let me in, please.”

He presses a button under his counter that causes the gate to yawn open.

“Dr. Drew is sending someone to come and meet you.” He glances behind him, and his face brightens. “There he is already. I wish you a pleasant visit at Crystal Lake, Miss Dupuis.”

“Sure, thanks.” A pleasant stay, indeed. From the cold knot inside my stomach, I could be walking into a slaughter house.

Now that I have access to the place, my mind screams for me to turn back, to tell Mr. Lined Face to let me out again. But I keep walking toward the man dressed in white shorts and a T-shirt that shows off his defined chest. In contrast to the man I had just met, this one is all smiles.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Dupuis.” He extends his hand to me. “I’m Alejandro. Dr. Drew is expecting you. I’ll take you to his office.”

“Thank you.” I shake his hand and follow him down a cobbled stone path. As soon as we reach the towering, off-white building, we turn a corner into another path, one framed with white roses on both sides. From this angle, I have a perfect view of the private beach belonging to the property that meets the glinting blue-green ocean.

We soon arrive at a set of sliding doors leading into an air-conditioned, marbled lobby. The chandeliers, mirrors, vintage art adorning the wall, and leather couches make this place look like a luxury resort, if it weren’t for an occasional doctor walking by in scrubs. Which is no surprise as the residents here can afford the comfort. They can have a holiday and be treated at the same time.

After the stroll through the lobby, a ride in a glass elevator, and a few minutes’ walk down several connected hallways, we arrive at an oak door with a brass plate with the name Dr. Darius Drew embossed into the metal. The word psychologist is written below the name.

My escort excuses himself, and I knock on the door. A middle-aged man with thick, black hair with sprinkles of silver at the temples opens the door. Though his smile is tight, it’s not unfriendly. The welcome is a far cry from what I experienced outside the gates.

“Miss Dupuis, nice to meet you. Please, come in.” I shake his hand and follow him into a spacious office with floor-to-ceiling windows on most walls, flooded by white morning sunlight. The air in the room is so clean as though it had been filtered of all smells. A major contrast to the air filling the lobby. The escort and I had walked through the sweet smells of fresh flowers released by the many huge vases in various corners. The scent of hand sanitizer had occasionally tainted the air.

“I hear you want to see Mr. LaClaire. Bryant said you’re a family friend?”

I nod, although I’m unsure if that’s true. “I am.” Fear wraps itself around my throat and squeezes. “I’m … I’m Audrey Dupuis’s sister. She’s—”

“I know who she is.” He observes me for a long time, then speaks. “May I offer you something to drink?”

“I’m fine, thanks.” I have no interest in staying in this place longer than I need to. “I’m here to deliver something to Mr. LaClaire.”

Dr. Drew pours himself a glass of water from a glass pitcher on his desk. He empties the glass, eyes still on me. “Miss Dupuis, you are aware that Mr. LaClaire is not well.” He comes to sit on the couch opposite to the one I’m on.

“His brother filled me in on his condition.”

“I heard you’re staying at the LaClaire villa. Did you arrive today?”

“An hour ago. What I have to say to Mr. LaClaire is urgent. That’s why I came here straight away.”

“Is that so?” He lets out a breath. “Miss Dupuis, you should know that we have managed to get his drinking under control, but Lance is damaged right now. He refuses to see even his own brothers. What makes you think he’d agree to see you?”

“Because I might be able to help. Please, give me a chance.” I don’t want to go into detail because I have no idea how much Lance had told his shrink about the events surrounding the accident that paralyzed him. The last thing I want to do is burn my bridge to him before I cross it.

“Well, since you have his brother’s permission to come and see him, I guess we can give it a try.” He scratches his well-trimmed beard. “I have to be honest with you, though, Miss Dupuis—”

“Please, call me Alice.”

“Very well, then, Alice. I have to be honest with you. Lance might decide not to let you in his room at all. If he refuses to see you, as his doctor, I will be obliged to ask you to leave. I hope you’re okay with that.” He rises from the couch and gestures for me to do the same.

“I understand. And I will respect his wishes.”

“Wonderful.” He straightens his bright yellow tie and heads for the door. “Follow me.”

Side by side, we exit on the third floor. Lance’s room is at the end of the hallway. Dr. Drew taps a knuckle on the white door. A deep voice on the other side of the slab of wood calls for us to enter. The doctor opens the door only a fraction, poking his head around it. “Lance, there’s someone here to see you.” He opens the door wider and I come to stand next to him.

The moment I look into Lance LaClaire’s eyes, my heart clenches as I watch the fire of rage exploding in his pupils.

“Miss Dupuis says she has an important message for you,” Dr. Drew says cautiously.

I try to smile, but my lips feel frozen.

Lance continues to stare at my face, his breathing audible, jaw clenched tight.

I should reach out to him, be the first to speak, break the large block of ice between us. “Hi, Lance,” I whisper, then raise my voice a little. “I’m Audrey Dupuis’s sister.” I allow the words to sink in. “I was there ... the day the two of you met.”

“I remember you.” His face clamps up even more. “What are you doing here?”

“Can I come in? I need to talk to you. I came all the way from Paris to see you.”

“You have the right to refuse, Lance. Or you can hear Miss Dupuis out.” Dr. Drew pushes his hands into his pockets.

Lance doesn’t even acknowledge him.

After a long, pregnant pause, during which Lance’s features change from anger to confusion, to annoyance and then to nothing, he nods at Dr. Drew.

“I’ll be in my office if you need anything,” the doctor says and walks back down the hallway toward the glass elevator.

“You have five minutes,” Lance says to me.