Seconds before, Dylan had been leaning toward her, through the several feet of space between his chair and hers. Maybe their proximity became too much for her, or maybe now that she has the pill in hand she wants to run from the office and swallow it in private before she loses her nerve.

At any rate, the fact that she’s now on her feet has left Dylan staring up at her awkwardly. Worse, it suggests she wants to end this meeting, when the truth is quite the opposite. The bright-orange pill burns a hole in her palm, it seems, and she’s full of questions about it.

“A what?” she asks.

“It’s a derivative of a benzodiazepine.”

“What’s that? An antidepressant?”

“No. It’s a very mild central nervous system depressant. It’s designed to be fast acting, but it’s also timed release, so it should remain relatively constant in your bloodstream for the next twenty-four hours. I want you to come back around this time tomorrow so we can assess.”

“Assess what?”

“How you respond to the drug. We can pull you off it right away if you don’t like the side effects.”

“OK. And the positive effects are supposed to be what exactly?”

“A rapid reduction in anxiety and fear-based thinking without the sedation effect of a heavier benzo or Valium. It doesn’t sound like you’re suffering from clinical insomnia, just a sleep disruption caused by conditional anxiety. This will attack the anxiety directly but in a measured and hopefully consistent way.”

“It’s new?”

“Excuse me?”

“This drug. Zyprox . . .”

“Zypraxon, yes. It’s brand-new actually. They’re just rolling it out now. I’ve got enough samples for us to have a little trial run before you decide if a prescription will work for you.”

“OK. When should I take it?”

“Now.”

“Now? I need to be able to drive home.”

“It shouldn’t impair your ability to drive or work or anything like that. A lot of central nervous system depressants—Xanax and others—produce a single, powerful tranquilizing effect that becomes addictive. Zypraxon is designed to attack persistent anxiety at a lower dose released consistently throughout the day.”

She’s staring at the pill, and she still hasn’t been able to force herself to sit.

“Look, Charley, there’s stronger stuff out there we can talk about. This is not a wonder cure, by any stretch. But I think it’s well suited for you.”

“And you want me to take it right now?” she asks.

“To be frank, that doesn’t sound like a question for me.”

Is he losing patience with her?

Will he stop seeing her if she doesn’t take the pill?

Is she doing exactly what he just accused her of doing by asking herself these questions—pretending the real issue is how someone else perceives her and not what she needs for herself? After all she’s been through, why is this so scary? It’s a pill, and she can be pulled off it at any time. And while she’s certainly no expert in antidepressants or central nervous system depressants or whatever other class of drugs they give people to stabilize their moods these days, it sounds pretty mild.

And it’s him—Dylan.

Dr. Thorpe, when he’s asked her to do something she doesn’t want to.

How many hours have they spent together in this tiny office, talking about her and only her? Too many to count offhand; that’s for sure. And he’s listened to her the way no one else has since her grandmother died. More important, he’s told her the truth about herself even when it might sound unkind. Only a few people have done that for her before. Her grandmother, now gone, and her grandmother’s boyfriend, Marty, whom she can barely bring herself to call these days because the sound of his voice brings back a flood of once-joyful memories.

“Water,” she hears herself say.

Dylan reaches for an unopened bottle of water on his desk. He uncaps it for her.

One swig and she’s swallowed the pill.

“That took strength, Charley,” he says, rising slowly to his feet.

His hands grip her shoulders; it’s the most intimate touch they’ve ever shared. “Making a new decision, breaking an old habit. It takes strength. And believe me”—he kisses her gently on the forehead—“you are stronger than you know.”

It’s the first time she’s been touched, the first time she’s been kissed in even a quick and chaste way, in years, and it makes her dizzy.

She wants to cry again, but she can’t blame the pill. No way could it have gone to work this fast. She can blame her sleeplessness, for sure.

While she’s at it, she can also stop searching Dylan’s face for some evidence that the kiss was more than just a doctor getting carried away by enthusiasm. Dylan makes that easier for her when he turns to his desk and picks up a small notebook.

“For the next twenty-four hours I want you to keep a log of everything you go through. Anything that feels strange or off. Anything that might be a side effect. Write it down in this.” He taps the notebook, then presses it into her hand. He opens the office door and steers her through it. After the sudden, unexplained kiss, the feel of his hand against the small of her back makes her skin tingle. “Then I want to see you back here same time tomorrow so we can assess.”

By the time she’s reached the foot of the stairs, Dylan’s closed his office door again, which makes her feel unmoored and adrift.

The AA meeting will break up soon, and if she lingers here, some of the regulars might ask a bunch of prying questions about why she stopped attending.

She steps outside into the evening dark.

She hurries to her car, reminds herself with each step of Dylan’s promise that whatever this damn drug is, it won’t affect her ability to drive home.

Only once she’s behind the wheel does it sink in that there’s a strange new substance in her body, and for a second, she feels as if she’s been violated.

My choice, she reminds herself. It will be different this time because it was my choice. She repeats these words in her head like a mantra as Scarlet shrinks in her rearview mirror.

7

When the motorcycle almost runs her off the road, Charlotte’s tempted to blame the medication. How else could she have missed its approach? It’s got no mufflers.

The roar that swallows her Ford Escape now sends pure, raw fear shooting through her from head to toe.

For a second she’s blinded by its headlight; then it swings to the left before swerving in front of her SUV.

All right, Zypraxon. Do your thing!

Two more motorcycles appear on either side of her.

Her heart races. Her palms are so sweaty she fears they might slip from the steering wheel if she doesn’t hold on for dear life.

What the hell is this? She’s seen these guys before, mostly pulling in and out of the old bus sheds they’ve turned into their unincorporated hangout. It’s where they’re all headed now, she assumes—she hopes—but they’ve never tried to overtake her on the road like this. Was she weaving? Is this their way of punishing her? Fencing her in, drowning her in horrible sound?

Staring straight ahead seems like the best plan, but there’s almost nothing for her to stare at except desert dark and the biker in the lead. At least the guy in front is allowing more distance now between the tail of his bike and the nose of her SUV.

There’s faint purple in the western sky, but it’s mostly dark out now. In fact, there aren’t even lights to mark the spot where she knows their hideout stands. And that’s bad, she thinks. That means the place isn’t just a hideout—it’s some kind of storehouse, and they don’t want anyone to know about it.

Up until a few weeks ago, she was alone out here, which is exactly how she likes it. When the bikers first showed up, she hadn’t given them a second thought. Criminals who just want to do their own thing—a change of pace from the monsters in her past. Let them cook or deal their meth in peace, she’d thought. She wants to be left alone, and so do they.

But now they’re taking an interest in her. A really loud, scary interest. And up close she can see the telltale signs of hard-core outlaws.

A guy named Benny used to come to the meetings at the center all the time and share about his Hells Angels past. The other alcoholics got tired of him after a while, maybe because his shares had less to do with recovery than bragging about his criminal cred. But Charlotte was riveted every time he spoke, and now, thanks to Benny, she knows the sleeveless denim shirts these guys are wearing are called cuts; the patches on the back are signs they’re full-fledged members of the gang in question. The word Vapados fills the center patch on each guy’s back. She’s not sure what it means. Is it the name of their biker gang?

Benny’s shares always made it sound as if Arizona belonged to the Hells Angels. So where did these guys come from?

Only a few more minutes until they’d pass their hideout. If they still had her fenced in by then, it might be time to take the Beretta out of the glove compartment. But what good would that do?