Harley has been out cold for ten minutes. I've moved her into our medic room, but she isn't responding to anything.

Everett is restraining Angie … again … since the first time worked so well, and I'm standing here wondering why I dragged Harley into that room. I've been so obsessed with finding her throughout the last year that I'm the one who should be considered desperate. There’s still a chance I might be putting this innocent person into situations civilians shouldn't need to be in, but at the same time, I don’t see how Harley isn’t Isabelle. It all just adds up too perfectly.

Harley’s face is pretty beat up—the red welts will turn into bruises, and I’m sure the cut on her eyebrow may need a couple of stitches.

I slip my fingers through the ends of my hair as I clench my eyes shut while remembering how the hell I ended up here. Is this all I was meant to do? Torture the fuck out of people? It must be in my damn blood.

The irony of being locked in the psych ward of a hospital, only to be offered this position by some random fuck who claims to work for the government, stirs around in my head daily. It has me constantly scrutinizing the reason why it was me he wanted. The classes I took throughout my sentence weren’t exactly high level or preparatory for a career. I’m sure there are people far more skilled at what I do, but maybe it's just that I'm so damn manipulative and heartless, it’s the only thing I was cut out for.

"Open your eyes," I tell Harley for the twentieth time in the last ten minutes

"Maybe say it a little nicer," Everett tells me as he walks in and washes his hands at the sink next to me.

I eyeball him and shove him in the chest. "This isn't a fucking joke."

"Yeah, neither is your attitude. Lighten up. She was just knocked out by some cunt."

"Harley," I say, placing my hand on her cheek, sweeping my thumb back and forth lightly against her soft skin, "please open your eyes." My chest constricts at the sound of my own voice being something other than monotone. It feels like I’m letting my guard down and making myself an open target.

Just because Everett has to be right, Harley begins to stir—struggling a bit at first—as her long lashes flutter against her cheeks a few times before parting her eyes. "I don't want to do this anymore," she mutters.

Relief fills me as she speaks, regardless of what she's saying. She tries to sit up but seems to have trouble, which encourages Everett to give me a sidelong glance before reaching toward her. I shove him out of the way and slide my arms under her back, helping her a little more so she doesn't fall. "I pulled her off you as quickly as I could, but those first few blows got you good." She's looking up at me as if she were a sad child, and it's killing me. This was a stupid, fucking idea. "Come on." I help her off the table and over to a chair next to the medical supplies. Everett was a first responder for a while after he turned eighteen, so his skills have come in handy many times over the last couple of years. Those were the years where he was responsible and I was job-hopping at low-paying gigs without a care in the world for what I wanted to do with my life.

"You're going to be in a little pain over the next day or so," Everett tells her as he presses an ice pack against her face. She clenches every muscle within her face as the cold touches her skin, so I take her hand, knowing I'm responsible for this. Everett pulls on a pair of gloves and reaches into the medical cabinet to retrieve a handful of medical supplies—gauze and ointments from the metal cabinet hanging from the wall. His hand slips under her chin as he presses a cotton ball against the wound on her eyebrow. "Take a deep breath," Everett tells her.

"I don't want to do this anymore," Harley says again through a quiet groan.

"Angie should have been constrained with metal cuffs. I don't know why she had zip-ties," I say, looking over at Everett.

"I don't care," Harley says.

"Yes, you do, or you wouldn't have been in there in the first place." Should it be so easy to offload some of my guilt onto her? No. No, it shouldn’t. I shouldn’t be blaming her for this.

"I needed a place to stay. That's all this is about," she says along with a loud exhale.

"I thought you weren't homeless," I remind her of her earlier statement.

"I was about to be." I'm wondering if that's the first honest thing she's said to me since we met.

Harley takes her free hand and pushes her hair off her forehead, gripping her hair at the roots while clenching her teeth from the pain. The exposed roots of her hair catch my attention, as I notice a thin line of an auburn hue. Black isn't her natural color.

"Where did you go to school?" I ask her.

Her eyes open, and she appears to be thinking of an answer, but I'm proven wrong when she responds with, "Who do you work for?"

"I'm not a bad guy," I answer indirectly.

"How long are we going to play this game?" she asks.

"Until one of us gives an answer the other wants to hear," I'm guessing.

"You're fucked in the head," she tells me.

Haven't heard that one before. "Aren't we all … "

I take the ice she's holding against her head and keep my hand pressed on it for her, letting my thumb sweep against her cheek again. The warmth of her skin does something unexpected to me, and I’m not sure what to make of it. "What's that YouTube video of yours called?" I ask, keeping my questions easier and less invasive, I suppose.

She clears her throat and inhales sharply. "I don’t think it has a name."

A smile tugs at my lips, despite trying my hardest to avoid the expression in any capacity. Harley is overly knowledgeable and yet vulnerable at the same time.

"I want to leave," she says again.

"No, you don't." I know she can't truly walk away now. Plus, I’ve gotten good at capturing people at their weakest moment, just like what was done to me. So, I have faith I can change her mind without force.

Three Years Ago

The two guards who have been escorting me from the prison van into this office building are pinching the skin of both my arms with their relentless grip, even though I haven’t fought against their hold. They aren't speaking to me and they aren't speaking to each other. We just stand side by side as we wait for the elevator doors to open.

As the doors open, one guard releases me and the other shoves me inside, turning me around to face the closing doors. They hit the button for the ninth floor, and we ride up while being soothed by the sound of elevator music, circa 1980 something. We step out onto a forest green, matted carpet and into the scent of mold. The orange-lit hall is made up of about a dozen wooden doors—each with a small glass window in the center. The guards take me to the third door down and walk us inside as if we were expected. I wouldn’t know, seeing as I wasn’t told where or why we were leaving the prison. I can only hope there’s something better here for me, but I doubt it.

A reception desk resides in the corner, where a middle-aged woman with tight black curls, too much makeup, and a pair of rectangular, nose-tip reading glasses waits for us. She peers up above the rim of her glasses with a blank look. I guess she doesn’t know why we’re here either. Therefore, the sight of an inmate with guards must not be what she was expecting to see in front of her desk. She lifts her clunky, cream-colored phone from the receiver, and I hear a click of a button. "Dr. Phillips, Mr. Pierce is here." A tight-lipped smile stretches across the receptionist's face, and she holds up a finger. "He will be right with you." I guess I was being expected. Great.

Dr. Phillips, who I haven't met before, walks around the corner to greet me—us. He's wearing a tweed brown coat over a sweater-vest and collared shirt. His matching tweed pants and penny loafers complete the look, offering me an early assumption on how this appointment is going to go. He looks as though he should be sitting in an oversized leather chair, reading a classic while smoking a pipe. Even though there was no sign on the door, I can safely assume he’s a therapist of some kind.

He waves us along, and we follow him down a short hallway, into an open office. "You two can wait outside the door. I'll let you know if I have any trouble with him," Dr. Phillips tells the guards.

I take a seat in front of his desk, leaning back into the plush, navy blue chair. It's the most comfortable thing I've sat on in weeks. "Mr. Pierce, I've been reading over your records for the past couple of hours, and I'm intrigued to hear your side of the story."

"Why does it matter?" I ask him. I've given my story a hundred times since it happened, and not one person has believed me. Why does this schmuck doctor think my story is going to make any difference in this situation, and why would he believe me?

"So, I see here that you’re facing a felony charge and a potential life sentence in prison. That's unfortunate for a twenty-five-year-old like yourself, wouldn't you say?"

"Yeah, seeing as I'm taking the blame for something I didn't do."

Dr. Phillips raises his hands to settle down my growing anger he can obviously sense. "Why don't you tell me what happened," he suggests.

I’m so sick of repeating this damn story. I’m even tired of jogging through my memory to recall the night. "Fine," I sigh and shift my weight around in the seat to get more comfortable. "I was at Landing Bar on Lansdown Street having a beer with a buddy while watching the game. It was about nine o’clock, and the place filled up quickly, in a matter of minutes. I didn’t hear what exactly started a growing commotion, but suddenly, there was a bar fight starting behind my seat. I was in the direct line of getting tossed into the fight if I didn’t try and move or break it up, so I did the decent-human-being thing and tried to break it up. Before I even touched one of them, the smaller of the two guys was knocked unconscious by a full bottle someone must have grabbed from behind the bar. Evidently, he died a few hours later at the hospital. The guy who started the fight fled the scene. Seeing as people were intoxicated from the high-stress ball game, a few people pointed at me when the cops showed up. I was blamed for the fight and that guy’s death. Now, here I am."

"I see," he says. "Now, when people experience a certain level of rage, it can be common for the mind to block certain memories out. It’s even possible to convince ourselves that these occurrences didn’t happen." He presses his finger to the side of his head and narrows one eye. "Do you think there's any chance that could have happened to you?"

"No," I answer simply. "I didn't start a fight, take place in the fight, or finish the fight. I’m not crazy."

"I see you have scars on your knuckles," Dr. Phillips says. "Do you mind sharing how you earned those."

I glance down at the tops of my hands that are gripping each armrest. "I do mind."

"Fair enough." He studies me for another minute. "How about the one on your forehead there?"

"I don't feel like sharing that either."

Dr. Phillips looks down at the manila folder on his desk and opens it, scanning through the pile of papers. "Hmm." He continues reading through whatever paperwork he has. "So, Mr. Pierce, have you ever felt a sense of resentment in your life."

"What does that have to do with a bar fight?" I ask.

"Well, it seems to me you have more than a few reasons to be an angry young man."

"So?" I reply.

"I'm saying, your anger could have played a role in the bar fight," Dr. Phillips continues.

I snicker and let my head fall back. "What is with this conspiracy to make me take the fall? What happened to the whole innocent-until-proven-guilty shit we have in this country?"

"The witnesses have not been helpful in this case, Mr. Pierce."

"Great."

"Here's what I'm going to do for you," he begins. "It's clear you’ve been through more hell than any twenty-five-year-old should have to go through, so I'm going to suggest to the judge that you are mentally unstable. I may be able to negotiate an alternative sentence for you if you’re interested?"

"I'm not mentally unstable," I argue.

"Feel free to take the prison time instead," Dr. Phillips responds.

"Just because I grew up in the system, that doesn’t automatically make me a convict," I tell him.

"No, you’re right, but it sure does give you motivation to be angry, resentful and immoral."

I can't afford a lawyer that isn't state appointed. No one wants to conduct a proper investigation to prove my innocence, and I can tell the judge hates me by the way he rolls his eyes each time I defend myself. The jury watches the victim's family crying on one side, and a ratty-looking guy on the other side.

"What would you be able to negotiate for me?" I ask with a groveling sigh.

His lips press together, and his brows furrow as he looks around in thought. "We're probably looking at a year of civil commitment, followed by a year in a rehab for psychosis and anger management, then probation for however long the judge sees fit."

"In any case, I'll still have a criminal record?"

"Yes," Dr. Phillips answers. "I can help you, Mr. Pierce, but you have to let me. My help can solve some of your other issues, as well."

I snicker. "You can’t solve any of my broke ass issues."

"This is still a better option than prison," he says. "There are always alternatives."

"Oh yeah?" I humor him.

"A felony in your case means life in prison," he says, winning his argument.

"This is bullshit," I tell him. "Fine, go tell the judge I'm a fucking nutcase."

"We prefer the term ‘mentally unstable,’" he corrects me.

I prefer the term, "Fuck you."