Cash jogged down the airplane steps to his waiting car. He handed his bag to the driver, got the formalities out of the way, and climbed into the back seat. Five minutes later, they were speeding down the autobahn towards Dr Bauer’s offices for Cash’s interview to see if he’d be a suitable candidate for the treatment programme.

Interview. He’d laughed when the receptionist had told him that, until he realised she wasn’t joking.

After making the decision to follow Rowan’s advice and seek proper treatment from an expert, he’d almost caved and called Natalia. He was desperate for her to know he hadn’t given up on their relationship, but as his finger had hovered over her number, he hadn’t been able to send the call. He was amazed Pete or Emmalee hadn’t rung to give him a mouthful. He’d certainly expected it in the days after he kicked Natalia out. But as time passed without hearing from them, he’d stopped jumping every time the phone rang.

He touched her engagement ring, which hung on a chain around his neck. It was his one connection to her, a constant reminder that he’d better work his fucking nuts off to try to recover. If he succeeded, maybe one day he’d be able to slip it back onto her finger.

Dr Bauer’s office was on the outskirts of Hamburg, a modern-looking facility, all glass and wood and chrome. It looked expensive and exclusive, which was not surprising, considering he was being charged a wedge for a one-hour consultation. And if the doctor deemed Cash suitable for his programme, that fee was a mere drop in a very big fucking ocean.

Cash slipped his phone into his jacket pocket and left his overnight bag in the car. His legs were heavy as he trudged up the path to the front of the building. Anyone would think he was heading for the gallows rather than meeting a man he hoped would help him get his life back.

The doors opened automatically, and Cash stepped inside. The reception area was empty—as per his instructions—apart from the receptionist who sat behind a large oak desk, her fingers flying over her keyboard.

“Mr Gallagher, welcome.” She stood and waved at a row of chairs lined up against the wall. “Take a seat. Dr Bauer will be with you shortly. Can I get you something to drink?”

“No, thanks.”

He sifted through the obligatory magazines, but none piqued his interest. He tidied them back into a pile and tapped his foot impatiently. He didn’t have to wait long for Bauer to arrive. He looked German, if there was such a thing—sandy hair, thinning on top, compensated by a very bushy beard. He wore horn-rimmed glasses and a tweed jacket with leather patches on the elbows. Cash almost laughed. The man was a walking cliché.

“Mr Gallagher,” he said in heavily accented English. “I’m Dr Bauer.” He shook Cash’s hand, his grip firm yet warm. “Please come through.”

Cash followed him down a thickly carpeted hallway, which resembled a decent Hilton as opposed to a mental health facility. Bauer’s office was at the very end and looked out onto well-trimmed gardens with regimented borders filled with multicoloured plants. Cash inwardly groaned. He was definitely losing the plot if he’d begun to notice flowers.

“Sit, please.” Bauer waved to a comfy-looking chair that was a far cry from a psychiatrist’s couch. Perhaps not the full cliché package, then. Cash sat down, his legs jiggling of their own accord.

“You seem nervous.”

Cash grimaced. “Been a long time since I had an interview that mattered, Doc.”

Bauer chuckled. “Try not to think of it like that. It’s more of a getting-to-know-each-other session.”

“So how does this work exactly? I spill my guts, and you decide whether I’m a candidate for your programme?”

Bauer leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled under his chin. “Do you want to spill your guts?”

“Not particularly. But we’re not going to get very far if I don’t, are we?”

“Aren’t we?”

An uncomfortable feeling stirred in Cash’s chest. Was this guy taking the piss?

“Are you feeling angry now?”

Cash glared across the desk. “You some kind of mind reader?”

“A reader of body language perhaps.”

Cash glanced down at his fisted hands and unclenched them. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “This isn’t exactly comfortable for me.”

“I’m sure it isn’t.” Bauer picked up a pad and pencil. He crossed his legs, resting the pad on one knee. Pencil poised, he fixed his gaze on Cash. “How long has it been since your accident?”

Cash counted backwards. “A little over three months.”

“And you were in the coma for how long?”

“Fifteen days.”

Bauer scrawled on the pad, the pencil making a scraping noise that began to get on Cash’s nerves.

“And apart from the rage, any other symptoms? Headaches, eyesight problems, loss of memory? Impotence?”

Cash’s lips twitched, despite the churn in his gut. “I have no memory of the moments right before the accident until I woke up two weeks later, but apart from the crush injury to my hand, everything else works just fine, Doc.”

Bauer almost smiled, but Cash got the feeling the man didn’t possess an active sense of humour.

“Have you noticed any patterns in what causes the rage? Places, people, events?”

Cash hesitated. “Only one. Every time I think about not being able to play tennis again.” Flames of anger licked at his insides, and he breathed in slowly through his nose.

“Has that been medically confirmed?”

He met Bauer’s steady gaze. “Your lot never say never, right?”

“My lot?”

“Doctors. They’ve used words like challenging and difficult, but no one has said I’m definitely screwed, even though I am.”

Bauer tilted his head to the right. “And why would you think that?”

Cash leaned forward and picked up a glass of water. It instantly slipped through his fingers and smashed on the floor. “Lost my best wanking hand, Doc.”

Bauer gave the first genuine smile Cash had seen, but it disappeared as quickly as it had arrived. “Are you still having physio?”

“On and off.”

“I suggest more on and less off. I can recommend someone if you’d like. Local to here.”

“And what use would that be to me?”

Bauer dropped the pad onto his desk and held out his hand once more. “Welcome to the programme, Mr Gallagher.”

Half an hour later, Cash opened the door to his hotel room and dropped his bag on the floor. He flopped onto the bed. He’d made it onto the course for nutjobs. He wasn’t totally sure how he felt about being accepted into Bauer’s programme, but at least he was doing something. Bauer seemed confident Cash had a good chance, maybe not of a cure but of finding coping mechanisms to help manage the mental changes brought about by his accident. And if he learned to control his anger, then he had a chance of winning Natalia back.

Right then, he made a promise to himself. Whenever this road got tough—and it would—he’d keep her at the forefront of his mind. He was doing this for himself, for her, and for their future together.

Looks like I’m moving to Germany.