My texts to Will/Ethan/whatever I should call him go unanswered. After the fourth one I give up, not wanting to be a nag. Not willing to be one of those crazed girls who never leave their man alone.

Not that I believe he’s my man. Whatever we have, I can’t even begin to describe it anymore. It’s confusing. A bit of a mess.

Fine, it’s a total mess.

The other thing that turned into a total mess? That interview we just did with Lisa. Talk about a waste of our time—and Lisa’s. I’m scared to see what will air tomorrow. To say it will be nothing short of a total disaster is probably being kind.

She tried to talk to me before I left. Tried to dig for more information on Will and what happened during my time with him. Her gaze was sharp, her words succinct. She wanted to know if I was being truthful with myself, or if I’d immersed myself in some sort of hero-worship complex over Will.

Immediately offended, I walked out much like he did . . .

And haven’t seen him since.

Restless, I pace around the hotel room, chewing on my thumbnail, answering a text from my sister when she asks what I’m up to and if I want to come spend the weekend with her. She has no idea I’m in San Francisco and I’m not about to tell her. I also really don’t want to hang out with her and her boyfriend for two days. I make the excuse that I have schoolwork to catch up on and decline.

Thank God.

I change out of my tights and dress, putting on a pair of jeans and a white T-shirt, throwing on my favorite black cardigan over it. I’m hungry. Nerves killed my appetite earlier, so now I’m starving. I’d love to go out for dinner—San Francisco has some of the best restaurants—but I’m not about to go out alone.

Rummaging around the desk, I find the room service menu and am reading over my options when my phone dings, letting me know I have a text message. I pull my phone out of my sweater pocket and check who it’s from.

Ethan.

I bite my lower lip, contemplating how to answer when another text comes through.

Relief floods me. As silly as I know it is, I worried he might have been mad at me. Worse, I was afraid he’d left San Francisco for good. Not that I believe he would ditch me, but I wasn’t sure. Do I even know the real him? Were those glimpses he’s shown me for real? Or him playing at being what he thought I wanted?

My phone dings yet again.

Yes, yes, yes. I want to, but I don’t want to appear too eager. Which is stupid. We’re beyond playing games, aren’t we?

I’m already grabbing my white Converse sneakers to slip on and I hurriedly text him my answer.

I dash into the bathroom, my untied shoelaces flying around my feet as I finger-comb my hair, then run my fingers underneath my eyes, removing any eyeliner or mascara smudges. I grab a lip gloss out of my open makeup bag and slick it on my lips, taking a step back to see if I look okay.

What does he see in me? The poor little girl who still needs to be rescued? Or does he see me as a woman, the woman I am today? Considering how intimate we became in such a short amount of time, I have to assume he sees me as a woman. But I’m guessing the line is blurred for him, and now that I know Ethan is also Will, the line has become completely blurred for me as well.

Seeing him at the studio looking so different yet the same, it was easy to fall into this . . . surreal way of thinking. Who I had in front of me, and then beside me, wasn’t Ethan at all. It was Will.

It sounds completely crazy but the transformation was there, at least in my head. Maybe I’m doing this to cope. Maybe I really am going crazy. Right after everything happened, my parents wanted to put me on antidepressants. There’s no denying that I was depressed. But even at that young of an age, I didn’t want to be medicated. My head was already deeply submersed in a fog. I didn’t think I needed to add to it.

Though I’m thinking if I keep mixing the two sides of Ethan/Will, I might need to start taking some sort of medication to keep me steeped in reality. Or perhaps up my therapy with Sheila . . .

A knock sounds and I go to the door, my pace slowing as I take a deep breath and paste a smile on my face when I turn the handle and open it. He’s standing in the doorway, wearing jeans and an open black flannel button-down shirt, a white T-shirt beneath it. His hair is damp, curling around his neck and ears, and he’s wearing his glasses once more, five o’clock shadow already appearing on his cheeks. He doesn’t smile in return, but his gaze roves over me almost hungrily.

An answering hunger throbs in my blood and I clutch the door handle tightly, almost afraid to let go. “Hi.”

“Hey.” He practically glowers, but it’s a good look for him. Reminding me of the sullen Will of my youth. The boy who didn’t want to help, but couldn’t stop himself from saving me anyway. “You ready?”

“Let me grab my purse.” I open the door wider, indicating he should come in and he does, his spicy clean scent lingering in the air as he walks past me. Taking a deep breath, I let the door close, watching him as he goes straight toward the window, peering outside at the city before us.

The sky is at that perfect moment of twilight, when it’s not quite fully dark, but not really light, either. It’s an almost velvety mix of blue and purple. The stars should be just making their appearance, though I really don’t spot any now. The city lights are too bright.

“The sky reminds me of your eyes.”

Grabbing my phone, I pause, surprised at his words. “Really?” I squeak like an idiot and I briefly close my eyes, shake my head. Thank God he can’t see me.

He doesn’t answer me. Instead he shoves his hands into his front pockets, scanning the city spread out before us. I start to go for my purse, practically tiptoeing behind him. He seems on edge, upset still, and I’m not quite sure what to say.

“You have a better view,” he finally says, never turning away from the window. “I can almost see Alcatraz from here.”

I halt in grabbing my purse, watching him as he continues to stand there. Tall, immovable, his shoulders wide, his legs slightly spread, as if he’s braced and ready for battle. The anger and frustration seem to vibrate from his body, and I’m tempted to go to him and offer him comfort.

But I’m not sure if comfort is what he wants.

He glances over his shoulder, his dark, intense gaze pinning me in place. “Do you think if my father got put up at Alcatraz, he would’ve found a way to escape?”

I shrug, wondering where he’s going with this. “I’m not sure,” I say hesitantly. “He hasn’t tried to escape where he’s at now.” San Quentin State Prison is where they hold all men who’ve been condemned to death in the state.

“Yes he has.” He turns to face me, his expression grim. “Once, four years ago.”

My mouth drops open. I would have been . . . seventeen. I don’t remember hearing about this. “How do you know?”

“They notified me.” He shrugs, as if it’s no big deal. “He was stopped before it ever got too far. He wasn’t even officially missing. They just found evidence that he was planning an escape and they wanted to keep me informed.”

I wonder if they notified my parents. I’m going to guess yes, but they never thought it necessary to let me know. But why? Were they afraid I’d freak out? Probably.

“Was he punished?”

“He was put in solitary confinement and they kept a close watch on him. I don’t think they consider him a threat any longer. He’s an old man, starting to panic now that his execution date is drawing near.”

“What would you do if he ever escaped?” I ask, my voice low, my heart in my throat. I don’t know what I would do. San Quentin is maximum security. Not many inmates have escaped or even attempted to escape that prison.

A prison that’s just north of San Francisco, meaning it’s not very far from here or where I live.

The thought sends an icy shiver down my spine.

“Arm myself with as many weapons as possible and wait for him. He knows my address now. He could find me easily.”

“Do you think he’d try?”

“I don’t know, Katie, and I really don’t want to talk about him anymore.” He approaches me, resting his hands lightly on my shoulders, his gaze never leaving mine. “Let’s go out to dinner and talk about . . . nothing that has to do with today or our past or any of that. Let’s talk about now. Or tomorrow. The future. Just nothing to do with you and me and eight years ago and my father.” He grazes his thumbs along the base of my neck, a gentle touch that warms my skin, and my lips part on a soft gasp. His touch feels so good.

Too good. Too real. Making me want more . . .

“Are you okay with that?” He bends his knees a little, so he can look directly into my eyes. His hands are still on my shoulders, his thumbs still touching my throat. I’m held captive by his gaze, his touch, his voice. Everything about him grabs hold of me and refuses to let go.

I nod, unable to speak past the sudden lump in my throat. He looks relieved, pulling me close so he can press his mouth to my forehead. I close my eyes, savoring the touch of his lips on my skin, his nearness, the tenderness in his gesture. But I can also feel the restrained hunger, the need he has for me.

And I want to give in.