Sunlight warms my face as I lie in bed. Blinking, I open my eyes, for a moment confused by my surroundings until I become aware of Ethan’s arm draped over my stomach and his body pressed against my back. The night filters through my head, a little hazy and out of order. What I remember most, though, is the high. The elated, terrifying weightlessness of leaving my own body. That’s how it feels when Ethan kisses me. A little scary—like taking your hands off the wheel driving down a long dark road at ninety miles an hour. And a lot like walking away from the wreck.

Though I’m still not certain any of this was a good idea, I can’t deny that, right now, right here, is exactly where I want to be.

“You’re awake.” His hand flexes against my stomach to hold me closer as he kisses my shoulder. “Sleep well?”

“Mm-hmm.” I roll over to face him. “Time is it?”

“Almost eleven. I wanted to let you rest.”

He’s been awake for some time, eyes clear and bright. His hair’s still bed-messed, though. Wild and erratic. I reach up and run my fingers through it, fascinated. Ethan closes his eyes and exhales.

“I’ve wanted to do this for a while now,” I say.

“Don’t stop.”

He grabs the back of my knee and hitches my leg over his hip. His hand slides down my calf and back up to my thigh. With just the lightest touch, every nerve in my body wakes and blood rushes hot through my veins.

“What’s this?” Ethan’s fingers trace the scar on the back of my calf. Around the stippled, disfigured skin that is nearly invisible but for the indentation beneath it.

“It’s, um, from the night we left,” I say, tracing my fingers across his collarbone.

“You were shot?”

“No, uh, not exactly.”

Faint freckles dot Ethan’s shoulders. Barely there. Forming constellations across his skin. I draw shapes in their patterns.

“The first four, you know, died in bed. He stood in the room and shot them, one after the other. They never had time to react. But the others, he chased them. Nobody knew where to go, where the shots were coming from.”

You can’t imagine how dark it gets in the middle of nowhere when you’re terrified and running. He picked them off, as they were scattered and screaming.

“He saw us. My mother and me. All I could think was Keep running and don’t look back. Then something hot stung my leg. I think I was so scared, so much adrenaline pumping, I didn’t understand what happened until later when I looked at it and saw all the blood. Doctor at the hospital said it was probably a ricochet.”

“See.” Ethan covers my scar with his hand, massaging my leg. “I learn something exceptional about you every day.”

“There’s nothing exceptional about sort of getting shot.”

“Face it, ace, you’re a badass.” He leans in, lips brushing against mine, gentle and teasing. His hand slides up the back of my thigh as my fingers trail down his chest, the ridges of his stomach. His muscles clench beneath my touch.

“Christ,” he hisses. “You were right. This is never going to work.”

“What? Why?”

His eyes peel open, barely seeing me through thick lashes. “How am I supposed to spend all day sitting beside you in an office and get any work done?”

Charming men who know they’re charming are the worst.

“I guess you’ll just have to suffer through it.”

“You know…” Ethan brings his hand up to wrap behind my neck, running his thumb along the bottom of my jaw. “There are rooms in that building where no one ever goes.”

“Yeah, I’m actually trying to avoid the label of office slut. So maybe we keep this confined to appropriate spaces.”

“Hey…” He rolls onto his back, bringing me with him to lay my head on his shoulder. “There’s no shame in your game. When a woman wants some D—”

“Shut up.” Laughing, I smother his mouth with my hand.

Teeth nip at my fingers as he pries my hand away.

“Come on.” He tilts my chin up to give me a kiss, brief and sweet. “I’ll make you breakfast.”

“Out of curiosity,” I say as we both climb out of bed. “What’s the plan? We are going home today, right?”

On the other side of the bed, Ethan stands shirtless, scratching his hand through his hair.

“Well, I was going to mention this after breakfast…”

“What, that you’ve actually kidnapped me, told Kumi I’m dead, and plan to keep me locked in this house forever? Wait, is this even your house? Did we break into some random celebrity’s summer home last night? I don’t want to end up on TMZ.”

“Fuck, what gave me away?”

I follow him out to the kitchen and take a seat on a stool at the island.

“Seriously, though. Clue me in.”

He goes to the refrigerator and pulls out fruit, milk, and a tub of butter.

“Actually, my parents will be here later this afternoon.”

“What?” I say too loudly. Then, lowering my voice, “Your parents are coming?”

“They’re having an anniversary party tonight.”

Ethan goes to the pantry and pulls out a loaf of bread and a bag of powdered sugar.

“Caterers and whatnot will start showing up at one.”

“You didn’t think to mention this earlier? I can’t meet your parents like this. I don’t have any clothes. You’re going to introduce me to your mother while I’m wearing your underwear?”

He turns around, hands braced on the counter as he surveys me with a crooked grin.

“I don’t know, Avery, you look adorable as hell.”

“Stop it. Be serious.”

Stepping away from the counter, he comes to stand behind me and wraps his arms around my stomach.

“I was up at eight this morning. I’ve already washed our clothes and made sure your shoes were dry. If you don’t want to stay, I’ll drive you home. If you do,” he says, pressing his lips to my temple, “and I hope you will, we can go find a shop in town and get you something to wear.”

I don’t know what’s gotten into Ethan, or if this is his normal resting position and everything until last night was a passing phase, but I think I like it.

“You’re nuts, you know that?” I tilt my head back to look up at him. “Like, you need adult supervision.”

He kisses my forehead. “And now I have you.”

Ethan figures out pretty quickly that I hate shopping for clothes. A few miles west of his parents’ house, near the tip of the island, we stop in a busy shopping district full of boutique stores and little mom-and-pop restaurants. After watching me wander aimlessly through the clothing racks at first one and then a second shop, Ethan takes over. With the same sort of commanding, impatient efficiency he applies to most tasks, he whips through the store grabbing dresses and piles them up in my arms. Five try-ons later, we fight over who gets to pay until I look at the price tag of the navy linen wrap dress and give up the argument. Throw in a pair of sandals on top of that, and I’m going to need a second job to pay him back.

“It’s a gift,” he insists as he hands the clerk his credit card. “I’m the one who kidnapped you and talked you into staying for this party. At least make me pay for it.”

I’d like to say I have too much pride to accept expensive presents the morning after spending the night in a man’s bed, but I’m poor. If it makes Ethan feel better to blow his money on a dress, so be it.

We wander the town for a while, then visit the Montauk Point Lighthouse and the state park at the tip of the island. There’s a gorgeous view from the high grassy hill. Nothing but ocean and clouds straight out to the horizon. The wind kicks up, lashing my hair around my face as I watch seagulls hang suspended in the air.

“I’ve always wanted to do something,” he tells me as we make our way to the lighthouse museum.

The museum is the old keeper’s house, essentially. Three bedrooms and a parlor that connect to the communications and oil rooms through a hallway.

“Do what?”

The answer requires we climb 128 steps, 86 feet, to the top of the tower. There, in front of the big lantern and half a dozen other tourists with their children, he grabs me in his arms and dips me halfway to the floor. Deep and assertive, he kisses me like a man who’s just found out he’s got a week left to live. Finishes with a big, dumb smile as he pulls me upright.

“You’ve lost your mind,” I tell him, laughing and shielding my face from the confused spectators.

“No.” He stares into my eyes and brushes his fingers along my temple to tuck my hair behind my ear. “I’ve only just found it.”

But there’s something wanting in his voice. Something subtle hiding in his inflection. Desperate to show me yet terrified to reveal himself. It’s a puzzle that occupies me for much of the day.

Around four that afternoon, we arrive at the house to find a convoy of box trucks and cargo vans parked in the circular driveway. I also spot a black Range Rover, which I guess to be his parents’. Several platoons uniformed in black-and-white formal wear pass us going back and forth through the front door. Caterers with coolers and big rolling racks, decorators rearranging furniture and carrying tall cocktail tables to the backyard. So many people running around in so many different directions, it’s like the house itself is alive and moving.

“This is going to be some party,” I say to Ethan as we stand in the living room dodging traffic.

“It’s their thirtieth anniversary. And my dad likes to go big.”

A hint of disapproval tinges his voice as he surveys the activity. I don’t know if it’s parties that put him off, or his parents in general. He seemed happy enough to support them in celebrating this milestone, but in telling me the story of his brother, he expressed some resentment toward them. As with most families, I suppose it’s complicated.

“Dad?” he calls into the void.

A voice answers back from the kitchen. “In here.”

We find Ethan’s father standing at the island, making a sandwich, among several men and women in chefs’ coats all unpacking bins and containers to spread out on the counter. In khakis and a white button-down with the sleeves rolled up, Ethan’s father is the spitting image of his son. Or the other way around. Shorter hair, a distinguished level of salt-and-pepper, and a longer nose, but he’s Ethan thirty years older.

“You just getting in?” his dad asks, not looking up from the cutting board, where he rips leaves of lettuce and slices tomato.

“We drove up last night.”

Ethan puts his arm around my shoulder. It’s the we part that catches his dad’s attention. He looks up, first to his son. Then his gray-blue eyes slide to me. If you’ve ever met someone and known in an instant that they already despised you, before you even opened your mouth, then you can understand how I feel at the bitter contempt that flashes across this man’s face. It’s quite subtle and only lasts a second, but the look is potent and unmistakable. He puts down the knife and wipes his hands on a dishrag, taking a moment to appraise me, if only to confirm his initial reaction.

“Who’s this?” he asks.

“This is Avery. She writes for the magazine. Avery,” Ethan says, voice tight and attention fixed on his dad, “this is my father, Paul.”

“It’s nice to meet you. Happy anniversary.”

“Uh-huh,” is his dismissive reply. “Son, may I have a word?”

I try to step out of his grasp, but Ethan holds me in place.

“Where’s Mom?”

“Upstairs.”

“I want to introduce her to Avery.”

“She’s resting,” Paul says. He has the same tells as his son. Subtle gestures of his jaw. The inflection of his voice. These men are having an argument in subtext. “Later, perhaps.”

Conceding, if only for the moment, Ethan looks down at me with a poor approximation of a reassuring smile.

“Give me a minute,” he says. “I’ll come find you.”

Ethan follows his dad through the kitchen toward the other side of the house, and I’m left in a beehive of activity buzzing all around. I turn and nearly bump into a woman carrying huge slabs of raw red meat. I turn again and there’s a knife-wielding man in a floppy hat. Drifting through the house, dodging caravans of people carrying tables and linens and pieces of what looks like a dance floor, I’m in someone’s way everywhere I go. It’s too hectic. Anxiety begins to build as a numb sensation in my lips. Then a pulsing electricity through my limbs. This happens sometimes. A response to unfamiliar surroundings or a general feeling of disorientation. I just have to find some room to breathe.

In an effort to escape, I slip through one of the open sliding glass doors and make my way across the backyard toward the cliff, where I take the steps down to the beach. It doesn’t occur to me until I’m sitting in the sand, counting back from ten with my eyes closed and my hands cramping into fists, that I didn’t take my medication this morning. I don’t have it with me.

Once a month I meet with a psychiatrist for an hour, read through my stress journal, talk about coping mechanisms and managing trigger scenarios, and stop by the pharmacy to refill my prescriptions for anxiety and depression. After rehab flushed everything out of my system, I attempted the drug-free approach to treating mental illness—exercise, change in diet, and other bullshit homeopathic remedies. Suffice it to say, it didn’t work. So I got a new shrink and began the slow, grueling process of finding a regimen that worked. After nearly a year and more than a few setbacks, we arrived at a happy medium. I still have mild anxiety attacks, still tumble into the occasional bout of depression, but they’re tolerable. They don’t rule my life as they once did.

So I can do this. It’s only one day. Just grin and bear it.

A few minutes later, as I’m watching a sailboat cut across the horizon, I hear Ethan walking down the steps behind me.

“Thought I might find you here,” he says, and sits beside me on the sand. “It’s a good hiding spot, isn’t it?”

“Your dad doesn’t like me.”

“My dad’s a prick.”

He picks up a small rock and chucks it toward the surf.

“I shouldn’t be here. That’s what you two talked about, right?”

Ethan inhales a deep breath and runs both hands through his hair, propping his elbows on his knees. He’s reverted. The energy and excitement that brought us here sucked dry. He sits behind an implacable shroud, cold and detached.

“I want you here. End of story.”

The muscle in the side of his jaw flexes as he keeps his eyes trained on the waves.

“I’m just some random girl who spent the night in his house. Someone he’s never heard of and—”

“Don’t take his side.”

“I’m not. I’m just saying—”

“Stop.”

With one fierce, biting look, he shuts down and shuts me out. The door slams, and I’m left on the other side. This is his boundary. His father, or their friction—it’s his barbwire fence. Now I understand why I’m here. Why Ethan absconded with me in the middle of the night and begged me to stay. He didn’t want to endure this party alone.

“Hey.” I run my fingers through his hair, combing along his temple then up the back of his scalp. “I am on your side. Talk to me.”

Ethan’s head drops forward, and his shoulders relax. He’s quiet awhile, wandering in his own mind. It’s like the day I started at the magazine: Ethan leaning against a wall, angrily typing on his phone, and a ten-pound weight slung around his neck.

“I’m sorry,” he sighs. “I didn’t mean to snap at you. He gets to me. We haven’t gotten along since I was about thirteen. Frankly, I don’t think he likes me very much.”

“Why do you say that?”

He shrugs. “My dad’s never understood me, and he doesn’t want to.”

Trying to imagine Ethan as a child is difficult. The way you can’t see a blowhard politician or corporate CEO as ever having played in puddles or cried over a skinned knee. Some people you meet and it seems they must have come out of the womb a fully formed adult. Or hatched from an egg, in some cases. With Ethan, I can’t envision the boy chasing his brother around in a desperate attempt to be liked. I can’t see him sniffling, holding his breath, eyes red, while a doctor sets his arm in a cast. That the man next to me has ever spent a moment concerned about the opinions of others is almost inconceivable. There are glimpses, though. Of a kind, sensitive kid who every year layered on one more defense until he’d built himself a fortress. We’re all just children, dressed up, walking around in a grown-up suit.

“Well, look at it this way: at least your father didn’t keep you confined to a two-hundred-acre compound for half your life then murder nearly everyone you’d ever known.”

Ethan turns his head to look at me.

“You are dark.”

“Can’t help it.”

When Ethan works a room, he has an almost unnatural ability to adapt to the energy of each person who enters the conversation. It’s something to marvel at. Like watching it rain on only one side of the street. He switches from one topic to another, pivoting easily. It’s dizzying. We haven’t moved in an hour. We’re stuck in one spot near the living room fireplace. Ethan doesn’t make the rounds—he is the destination.

“My wife is waiting for your next book,” says the commercial real estate developer who wears too much cologne. “I don’t—where did she go? She’s a big fan. Loved The Cult of Silence. Have you considered a sequel?”

A financial planner, with his business card aimed and ready, says, “I heard you walked away with a pretty nice advance. Are you investing? Give my office a call. We should talk about long-term growth.”

Two hundred people, maybe more, all meander through the party, smiling and making polite small talk in scattered circles, and all with one eye on Ethan. He’s the rare and elusive creature at the zoo, the last of his kind, and everyone’s queued up for their turn to press their noses to the glass.

“I don’t suspect we’ll see Walter here tonight,” says a man in Tommy Bahama who introduced himself only as Jim.

Jim strikes me as the guy who tells everyone he’s Paul Ash’s best friend, they go way back, but in reality Paul wouldn’t recognize him if the two were the last men on Earth. He gestures with his glass of whiskey; a little wink-wink, nudge-nudge that makes the muscle in Ethan’s jaw tick.

“After that hit piece you put out last month.” Jim’s hacking, black-lung laugh exposes the fillings in his molars. “Heads are still rolling at Kreight Industries, I bet. Waterboarding secretaries and junior executives in the basement.”

Beside me, I feel the tension in Ethan’s body that he keeps concealed behind a flat expression. Ethan’s fingers around my waist twitch with the effort he exerts to endure this man.

“Which article was that?” I ask, because I’m tired of being an ornament. “I think I missed that one.”

“Oh, well…” Jim tosses back another swig of his drink. A drop seeps from the corner of his mouth and traces his chin. “Ethan here claims Walter Kreight is secretly bankrolling some, what, neo-Nazi terrorists?”

“I don’t claim anything,” he says. “There are three credible sources and financial disclosures that suggest Walter Kreight is funneling money through an ultraconservative political action committee to an alt-right militia group.”

Jim rolls his eyes, his whole head, because Ethan’s details are getting in the way of his story. He leans too close to me with sour, tree-bark breath. “Ethan got up in front of three hundred million people and accused one of the most powerful men in American of sedition and treason, is what he did.”

“Twenty million,” he says.

Jim’s face crinkles. “Huh?”

“The magazine’s readership. Roughly twenty million. At most.”

Ethan glances at me with a sardonic little glint in his eyes. Smart-ass.

“And Kreight Industries,” I say. “What do they do?”

Jim swallows the rest of his drink. “They make your toothpaste, your laundry detergent, your paper plates—everything. Half the shit in every home in the country. Half the civilized world, for that matter. Every time you wipe your ass or blow your nose, Walter Kreight makes a nickel. And this motherfucker,” he says, shaking one fat finger through the air and too close to Ethan’s face, “took a big shit right in his lap. You’ve got a serious set of big, brass floor-draggers, my friend.”

The vein in Ethan’s neck is bulging, but thankfully Jim spots someone else he must accost, so we’re spared his further attempts at banter.

“Why would Walter Kreight be here?” I ask Ethan as he presses his hand to the small of my back and diverts us outside toward one of the five bars set up around the party. “Are your parents’ friends of his, or…?”

Ethan takes a glass of champagne from the bar and I wave off the one he offers to me.

“It’s like living in a small town. Once you reach a certain tax bracket, everyone knows everyone. The people here tonight make up half the Fortune Five Hundred. The rest are lobbyists or would-be politicians. I’m sure if we looked around, we could find a senator or two.”

“What do your parents do for a living?”

“My dad helps rich people get richer. These parties are an excuse to do business. You get everyone in a room for a circle jerk and tomorrow there’s a new skyscraper going up and a merger announced and somewhere an inconvenient piece of legislation quietly dies in committee.”

He makes no attempt to hide his disdain as he surveys the yard. Though he’s impeccably dressed, khakis and a sapphire sports coat over a powder blue button-down, you don’t have to look too closely to notice Ethan doesn’t fit in here. He might have been bred from the same stock as these people, but his collar’s unbuttoned and he hasn’t shaved today. His hair’s a bit too long. Ethan’s the black sheep. The disruptive voice.

“Are you sure you don’t want something to drink?” he asks, downing another glass of champagne because it’s there and someone’s got to drink it. “I can’t handle these things sober.”

“No, I’m good.”

I don’t know how long I can get away with not spelling it out that I don’t drink. It isn’t a conversation I enjoy having. You tell someone, and their reaction is usually a surprised Oh followed by a judgmental Ohhh. Because the first place their mind goes is that you’re a raging alcoholic. Somewhere, not so far in your past, you were a sloppy, degenerate, booze-soaked pile of stumbling human waste getting tossed out of bars and waking up in your own vomit. They expect that right at this very moment, you’re a rabid animal held back by a very thin leash, ready to swallow a gallon of hand sanitizer. Might just Hulk-out and go on a tear through the party, grabbing drinks off tables and draining every bottle in the building until you drown in liquor and self-loathing.

Fact is, no one expects to be an alcoholic. Like finding out you’re allergic to shellfish when choking on your tongue with a piece of shrimp lodged in your throat—it’s just bad fucking luck.

I don’t know if I’m an alcoholic, but I could be. I’m an addict—same thing.

“And your mother? What does she do?”

This party’s been going for three hours and I still haven’t met Mrs. Ash.

“She was a thoracic surgeon. Until recently.”

Darkness again falls over him like a shadow. That same saturnine vacancy creeps across his face. I expect him to elaborate, but instead he downs his third glass of champagne.

“Tell me you dance,” he says.

“Not professionally.”

“Good enough.”

Taking my hand, he leads us to the center of the dance floor built on the lawn overlooking the beach. Huge white balloon lanterns illuminate the backyard. Strings of lights span the floor between posts driven into the grass. A band set up on a platform stage launches into the first chords of “Moondance” as Ethan takes me by the waist, my hand in his. He holds me flush against the length of his body and gives me not a moment to blink before he’s driving me backward, making my feet move. The jazz beat and sensual bass guitar possess him, transform him. A smile spreads across his lips while I cling for dear life just to keep up.

“Don’t you dare spin me,” I tell him, feet barely touching the ground.

“Don’t tempt me.”

He moves like a man made of music and rhythm. Confident, his body talks directly to mine, my mind left standing on the edge of the dance floor. For a few too-brief minutes I’m aware of nothing but his hands and his steady shoulders and the way his eyes watch only me. I lose myself in them. In the reflection of what might be. A glimpse into a future that hasn’t yet come to pass though I feel it as if it were yesterday.

The music ends too soon.

“You don’t have any idea, do you?”

“What?” I ask.

Standing still, ignoring the chords of the next song, he runs his hand up my back and into my hair.

“What it does to a man when you look at him like that.”

“Excuse me.” A waiter comes up and taps Ethan on the shoulder. “Your father needs a moment.”

Eyes fixed on mine, Ethan hardly reacts but for a regretful smile. His hand untangles from my hair as he leans in to speak against my ear.

“Don’t wander off.”

Then he kisses my cheek and follows the man to find Paul.

To wait for Ethan, I make my way back to the bar and ask for a club soda. As the bartender pours my drink, a woman in a conspicuous black dress steps up beside me. She’s every movie’s version of the Other Woman: a tall, thin, gorgeous twenty-something. She stands out even among the many second and third wives on the arms of much older men. The woman the first wives eye with suspicion should she come too near their husbands.

“Vodka tonic,” she says to the bartender once he hands me my drink.

But she has an air about her. This woman’s never been any man’s honey or sweetheart. She doesn’t get her ass pinched; she grabs men by the balls.

“He does have a thing for redheads,” she says.

I glance over to see her staring at the side of my face.

“What?”

“Ethan. Like a moth to a flame.”

And now I hate her.

“What an odd way to start a conversation.”

She smiles. Like she thinks I’m cute. A cat impressed that the maimed mouse still has some fight left in it.

“But you never can get him to stay in one place very long.”

Scanning the crowd, I sip my drink. At this point, I’d run into Jim’s hairy arms if I spotted him.

“I wouldn’t know.”

The bartender sets her drink on the counter and she ignores it.

“Where’d you two meet, if you don’t mind my asking?”

I mind, and she doesn’t care. But if I walk away now, I might not find Ethan till morning.

“Mutual acquaintance.”

In a manner of speaking.

“It is sort of odd, though, don’t you think? A man who’s forever chasing after a character from his own book? A character he based on a child, for that matter. Makes you wonder what sort of issues a guy like that keeps buried in his closet.”

Setting my drink on the bar, I turn to face her. “If you’ll excuse me, you’re a spectacular bitch, and I don’t want to talk to you anymore.”

Then I walk back toward the house with my heart beating double-time and my fingers going numb. Rage swells in my chest and seeps into my blood. The kind that makes you envision grabbing a woman by her hair and dragging her across hot coals. Inside, I search for Ethan, but I can’t find him. There are just too many people. My lips begin to tingle and curl in around my teeth. Cramps pull at my arms and clench my hands into fists. I’ve got to get somewhere quiet. Somewhere alone. I don’t think I can make it all the way back to the beach without collapsing and causing a scene, so I head for the closest bathroom.

It’s occupied.

And so is the next one.

I go upstairs but every door I try is locked.

My hand can barely grip the doorknob when I find one that’s unlocked and stumble inside.

“Hello?”

Shit. My eyes snap up to see a woman in a bathrobe sitting up in bed among several pillows, blankets folded down at her lap. This is the master bedroom.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” I turn to run out. “I was just looking—”

“Don’t go.”

I stop in my tracks. My blood turns to acid, legs close to total paralysis.

“Oh, you’re not okay at all,” she says, climbing out of bed.

I stand there, frozen, my vision going black around the edges. I’m like a worm on a hot sidewalk, burning, curling in on itself to die.

“Come on,” she says, taking me by the arms to bring me to the bed.

I sit down and close my eyes, trying to remember how to breathe and what comes after eight and thinking, Please don’t let Ethan find me like this.

“It’s all right. It’s all right. Just take deep breaths.” Standing in front of me, she holds my hands. “Nice and slow. Clear your mind. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

Seven, six, five…

“That’s it. You’re doing well. In and out.”

Four, three…

Feeling returns to my limbs. My muscles begin to relax.

“There you go. You’re okay.”

Two, one.

The worst part isn’t the panic attack, it’s the aftermath when someone’s watched it happen. The overwhelming feeling of embarrassment that, for no good reason whatsoever, your brain simply turned on itself. In an act of spontaneous revolt, it’s just tried to kill you.

“I’m so sorry,” I say, unclenching and opening my eyes to stare at my ghostly pale legs and shaking feet. “I was—”

“Have you had panic attacks before?” the woman asks.

“Yes. I’ll be fine. I should get—”

“Please.” She sits on the bed beside me. “Stay. Take a minute. There’s no rush.”

“I was just looking for a bathroom or…”

“Somewhere to hide?”

I look up to see her empathetic smile. That’s when I notice the scarf wrapped around her head and her missing eyebrows.

“Yeah.”

“I used to get them in college. All through medical school and my residency, in fact. They got so bad I nearly dropped out. Twice.”

“I take medication,” I tell her. “I, uh, didn’t expect to be here tonight, so I didn’t bring it with me.”

“Yes…” She scoots back on the bed to cross her legs. “I understand my impetuous son carted you off in the middle of the night. He can get a little carried away.”

“You know who I am?”

She winks. “Educated guess.”

Right now I might prefer death.

“Really, Mrs. Ash, I didn’t mean to barge in on you like this.”

“It’s no bother at all. It was getting a little lonely up here anyway.”

She doesn’t look sick the way you imagine dying people should. Her skin is a bit pale, eyes a little sunken and tired, but there’s life in her. She can still smile.

“Not much in the mood for a party, I take it.”

“It’s one of the perks of cancer.” She shrugs, unconcerned. “You can stop doing everything you don’t want to do, and no one can tell you otherwise.”

Got a point there.

“My husband means well.”

I guess I have to take her word for it.

“He hoped a party would lift my spirits. The truth is, I don’t want to spend a minute more of my life making small talk with a bunch of pretentious assholes.”

A loud, shotgun blast of laughter erupts from my throat. I can’t stop it. The pressure valve is released, and it’s like everything I’ve kept suppressed until now explodes out of me all at once. Ethan definitely takes after his mother.

“What brought you up here, if I may?”

The laughter leaves me.

“One of the pretentious assholes downstairs.”

“You’ll have to be more specific.”

Staring down at my lap, I pick lint off my dress.

“This woman came up to me, talking about Ethan. She wasn’t very pleasant to begin with, then she made a comment about…” I study her eyes—dark, deep-water blue like her son’s. “You know who I am, right? Who I really am?”

She nods. “He told me.”

“It’s just that everyone who sees Ethan and me together, they make the connection. That I look like Enderly. And they wonder.”

“That’s an unfortunate burden.”

To say the least.

Standing next to him, I might as well wear a sign. All this time I’ve been trying to get away from Echo and my father, but Ethan’s name will forever be linked to them. It’s unavoidable. The difference is, he had a choice.

“But if I might offer an unsolicited opinion,” she says.

“What kind of person would I be if I said no now, right?”

“He’s worth it.”

Not what I expected.

“Not because I’m his mother. From one woman to another. If you ever find yourself wondering. He’s worth it. Don’t let that be the reason it doesn’t work out.”

“Oh, well, I mean, we only just met, so—”

Mrs. Ash rests her fragile hand on my arm. She knows what I’m going to say, but she’s already made up her mind.

“Just be good to each other.”

The door opens. Paul stands at the threshold. A slight flicker of anxiety tightens my chest as he appraises me sitting with his wife. He has the same eerie presence his son exudes. The same gravity that sucks out all the oxygen in the room. He’s surrounded by the empty vacuum of space. It makes me wonder if he was always like this, or if it was the death of his elder son that cast a pall over his being.

“Linda,” he asks, “is there anything I can get for you?”

She shakes her head and climbs back up to the head of the bed to get in under the blankets.

“I’m fine. Just getting to know Avery. Maybe you better take her back to the party before Ethan gets himself into too much trouble down there.”

She certainly knows her son.

As I’m walking out, Paul enters to give his wife a kiss. But I make it only to the bottom of the stairs before he’s caught up to me. Unlike his wife, with her welcoming energy and a sincere, patient smile, Paul makes me nervous. He’s the wolf you catch out of the corner of your eye, stalking just on the periphery. The predator might do nothing at all, might simply be curious. Or it’s corralling you into an ambush.

“Avery?” he says, and comes up beside me. Paul gestures with his hand toward the hallway that leads to the other end of the house. “Join me for a moment.”

Not like I have a choice, I suppose.

Paul leads me into a library with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves stocked on every wall. There are two high-back leather chairs in the center of the room and a desk near the far wall opposite the tall windows facing the beach.

“This is a gorgeous library,” I say, scanning the room. “You have an amazing collection.”

Clearing his throat, he takes a seat in one of the leather chairs and motions for me to sit.

“A renovation three years ago. The decorator insisted. After a certain price point, it improves resale value.”

How sad and cynical. This man has everything and appreciates none of it. I’m beginning to see why he and his son don’t get along.

“Look, Avery…” He crosses his legs, leaning to one side against the chair’s armrest. “You seem like a nice girl. I’m sure you have only good intentions.”

It’s something people say right before they’re about to insult you. My hand reaches to where my pocket should be, but I don’t have any in this dress. The shell casing isn’t there. Instead it’s sitting on the dresser in Ethan’s bedroom.

“My family is going through a hard time right now. Linda’s cancer has returned after a period of remission. I’m afraid the outlook isn’t good and Ethan is having difficulty accepting the reality of his mother’s condition.”

A stone sinks in my stomach.

Now it makes sense. Ethan’s disappearance and agitation. The reluctance to talk to me about why he wasn’t at work. The reason he bit my head off and sent me away when I went to his house. The one person in his family he’s closest to, the only one who has ever understood him, is leaving him. And he has no choice but to watch it happen. Slowly, painfully, he’ll watch his mother slip away a little at a time. Until it’s just Ethan and a father he doesn’t love.

“I’m very sorry. I had no idea.”

“As I’m aware, you have troubles of your own.”

Now we’re getting to it. The part where I’m not good enough for his only surviving progeny. Not fit to be seen on the arm of what will be left of the Ash legacy. I’m tainted goods. A tragedy celebrity who grabs all the wrong headlines. Even being at this party, I’m an embarrassment to Paul and the impression he would give his very important guests. He doesn’t understand that I’ve had this conversation with myself a dozen times. When a boyfriend asks about my family and why he’ll never meet them. Relationships don’t last when you only know half the person you’re with. I guess I thought Ethan could be different.

“Mr. Ash, I appreciate your trying to be delicate, but why not just say what’s on your mind? If you’re trying to spare my feelings—don’t.”

I’ve grown impatient with this night. Anesthetized. As I sit here, I feel the wet blanket dripping down my shoulders. The apathy soaking in. Colors gray. Sound and sensation dim. Frosted glass walls rise around me and everything else is just a hazy, muted image on the other side.

“All right,” he says, uncrossing his legs. The pretense falls away and what’s left is the austere severity of a man who holds nothing sacred that doesn’t serve a purpose. “Ethan is prone to…instability. Stressful situations cause him to act out, behave erratically. The situation with his mother being what it is, I suspect that explains his sudden fascination with you. I do apologize for him, Avery. None of this is your fault. I simply think it best that you move on.”

“Why would I do that?”

He takes a breath, jaw working back and forth.

“A time is going to come soon when he will have to accept a new painful reality. When that happens, you are not equipped to handle him. I’m afraid your presence in his life only does more harm than good.”

He might be right. I’m not the one people turn to in search of comfort. I have no particular skills for consoling someone through tragedy. Maybe because I still haven’t learned to evolve past my own. You don’t go to a carpenter who has a broken sign on the door. But I’m willing to try. And I can listen. If I can at least be there for Ethan, hold his hand and let him lean on me—that’s something, right? And if he doesn’t want to talk, I can be someone to share the silence with. The darkness is a little less unbearable when you don’t have to endure it alone. I’ve been there, and I know the way out.

Standing, I smooth the creases from my dress.

“Thank you for having me, Mr. Ash. It was a lovely party.”

I turn around and stop dead. Ethan’s standing in the doorway, a black figure cloaked in shadow. Even from across the room I feel the anger radiating out from his body.

“What’s going on in here?”

“Nothing,” I say, walking toward him. “Just a chat.”

He stalks past me, his expression hard and impassive. I reach for his arm, but he yanks it away and keeps going toward his father.

“What did you say to her?”

Paul gets to his feet and sighs. “Ethan, there’s no cause for dramatics.”

“You don’t talk to her.” Inches from his father’s face, Ethan is composed fury. “Ever. You understand me?”

“Ethan?” I say, standing in the doorway. “Please. Everything’s fine.”

Hurried and vicious, he turns and strides toward me. Ethan puts his hand on the small of my back, pushing, and doesn’t say a word until we get to his truck outside.

“What about my stuff?” I ask.

He tosses me the keys and goes to the passenger side.

“It’s in the truck. You drive. I’ve been drinking.”

I climb in behind the wheel and watch Ethan buckle his seat belt then dig his phone out of his pocket.

“What’s going on?”

“Ed needs us back at the office.” He nods at me to start the engine. “Armed men have taken the Federal Reserve Bank on Liberty.”

“Holy shit.”

That’s only a block from the magazine. I put the truck in gear and turn us around to head out of the driveway.

“Nothing yet on their identities or motives,” he says. “Ed’s bringing everyone in.”

As I pull onto the main road, Ethan dials his phone and puts it on speaker. It rings through the cab.

“Ethan,” the hushed male voice on the other end says, “now’s not a good—”

“Carter,” he says, “tell me what you know.”

“I’m about to head into a briefing. Give me…three, four hours. I’ll get you—”

“Not good enough. In two hours I’m going to be standing on your dick. Give me something to go on.”

“Jesus, Ethan. We’re still just gathering intelligence from—”

“‘Special Agent Carter Grant indicates the FBI has no information on the unknown number of armed assailants who have now seized the largest Federal Reserve Bank in the United States.’ That’s the lead, Carter, if you don’t give me something useful.”

I glance at Ethan, then snap my eyes back to the road. I like this side of him. Hungry. Ravenous, even. There’s tenacity in his voice and urgency in his eyes. What attracts me to this career field is perhaps what attracts me to people: drive, ambition, and never-ceasing curiosity. Put on a press badge, and you become the shark. You’re the dark figure in the water. We prey on the predators.

“Fuck you, Ash.”

“Hey, hey. Be nice and I’ll let you blow me.”

Out of the corner of my eye I see Ethan smirk. He’s enjoying this.

“Look, I’m about to walk into a briefing. Right now we suspect seven men. Caucasian. We’ve got a lead on a possible motive, but I can’t say anything until we’ve looked at it and determined the intel’s credible.”

“How’d they get in?”

“Based on CCTV footage, looks like they walked through the front door. Someone on the inside let them in. No shots fired, as far as we know.”

“Any hostages inside? Have you made contact?”

“That’s all I got. Two hours, and I’ll let you know.”

“You’re my favorite, Carter.”

“Yeah, die in a fire.”

Ethan picks up the phone to end the call, but before he can, there’s noise on the other end.

“Wait, Ethan?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m looking at something here. When was the last time you spoke to Patrick Turner Murphy?”