You ever see your naked body all over the PBS station’s news show?

Me neither. Until right now, four days after Alice’s death, as I pull my frozen dinner out of the microwave and curl up on the couch, watching as the news cycle spins in front of me, moving from a story about North Korea to–

Me.

Did I mention the naked part?

Alice’s paintings are a visual feast that takes away my appetite. The scent of microwaved spicy chicken turns my stomach into a twist tie. There I am.

Naked and broadcast to the world.

After months of being doxxed, having every personal detail spilled all over the internet, having all my Facebook messages and private forum scribblings revealed for the world to see, you would think this wouldn’t be so embarrassing. I should have a thicker skin. I know it.

Those paintings are the real me. Not the fake me that the media creates.

That’s me.

The light on my skin is the same light that graced Silas as he gazed at me. The strokes Alice used, the blends, the perfect imperfections she catalogued–that is me. The way my throat goes concave for a brief stretch of inches, giving my neck a kind of ethereal curve, is me, too.

The world doesn’t deserve to see what Alice created.

The world doesn’t deserve much of anything right now.

Especially my contempt.

They get it, though.

Clearly, someone found their way into Alice’s studio and snapped pictures of the paintings. Larger than life, they boldly take up the screen, hungry for space. That’s my breast on screen, the size of a cantaloupe. That’s my belly on screen, winking at me with my navel as the eye. That’s my jawline, the size of a dinosaur’s, reflected in the soft light of Alice’s studio.

That’s me.

I flip the channels. I’m everywhere. If I wanted attention, this would be cause for celebration.

Instead, I’m alone in an apartment I didn’t rent, living next to a man I thought I could trust, and I’m eating over-salted crap as I click through my humiliation on over one hundred channels.

Losing Silas is the part that eats away at me. It’s been two days since I saw him last. Duff and Romeo alternate their coverage of me, standing sentry outside my door or finding places to hide. I won’t let them in my apartment.

And I’m ignoring all the calls and texts from my father.

Tap tap tap.

I jolt, the remote flying out of my hands and landing in my microwaved noodles.

“Go away!” I shout.

“I have ice cream and lattes. I can’t go away. That’s a major violation of Friend Code,” Lindsay calls back from the other side of the door.

Lindsay? What the hell is Lindsay doing here?

I open the door, because hey–who turns down free ice cream? Especially when it’s delivered to your door with your favorite coffee from The Toast and a compassionate smile that makes me want to cry.

Good cry. The kind that gets out locked-up emotions. The kind that softens ice cream and thorn-covered hearts.

Duff catches my eye as Lindsay marches in. I close the door, ignoring him, and she declares, “This place looks like the model apartment at every bland planned community.”

“You say that like it’s a negative. That’s the point,” I explain, instantly crushed by her hug. “We’re trying to be boring.”

“You’re succeeding. Wildly.”

“We can’t all be married to hotshot security firm owners and live a life of luxury.”

She snorts. “If by luxury you mean practically being leashed by your own husband, that’s me.”

“I really didn’t need that mental image, Lindsay. Your sex life is your sex life.”

She throws a cookie at me. Cookies? There are cookies in that bag, too?

Her eyes land on my remote control, resting in my dinner. “You have really strange taste buds.”

“It was an accident. I wasn’t expecting anyone to knock on the door. Startled me.”

“Is everything okay?” Her voice goes sharp.

“Uh, have you watched the news? Looked at your phone? Been on social media or a basic news website? My naked body is on display across the globe.”

“Oh. That.”

“That. Yes, that.” I gesture down at my sweats-covered limbs. “You know. My boobs are on CNN.”

“Eh.” Her nonchalance is starting to anger me. Then I realize what she’s doing. For Lindsay, my exposure really is ‘eh.’

Because the parts of her body that have been captured on video and streamed and downloaded, pictured and shown, are worse than what I’m going through.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “You’re right. It is ‘eh’ compared to what you’ve gone through.”

“I didn’t mean it that way.” She seems genuinely surprised by my comment. “I was just trying to make you feel better. I know how much it hurts.”

I start to breathe quickly, as if air is a rope and I need to swallow it in one long line before choking. It’s as if hearing her say it gives my body permission to feel the pain.

“You okay?” Lindsay asks, fingers on the latte lid as she hands it to me, paused in mid-move.

“No, but I will be. Someday. Maybe when I’m dead,” I reply as I take the cup.

She looks at me sharply. “Is that some kind of cry for help?”

“Not in the sense that I’m suicidal. I can’t die. Who would they write click bait about if I’m gone? Staying alive is a crucial public service on my part.”

Lindsay spews coffee mid-sip. “Jesus, Jane!”

“Oh, I’m sure the media is telling America I killed him, too.”

She give me a funny look, then laughs. “I totally know where your head is right now. It’s like being forced to be in combat at all times, only someone replaced your brain with extremely sensitive cotton that hurts when touched. So you go through life on edge nonstop, but you never have all your wits about you when you need to fight.”

I stare at her. The coffee burns my palm, but I can’t stop staring.

“And you start to feel like you have no future.”

I outright goggle at her.

“Because why should you? You’re a piece of trash in the media’s eyes. No one believes you, you’re only good for drama and controversy. You’re not allowed to have a future. In fact, if you tried to imagine having one, you’d take away their toy.”

“Toy?”

“You. You’re a toy now, Jane. You’re just something they play with when they need stimulation.”

“Ewww.”

“I didn’t mean it that way.” She screws up her face in concentration. “But it fits, too.”

“I just want it all to go away. If I could move to England or Australia, I would.”

“Why don’t you? Once some of the estate money from Alice comes in, you can.”

At the mention of Alice’s name, a big hole opens in my chest and starts to spin in a circle.

“Plus, that money means freedom. You can tell my fath– er, your father,” she amends slowly, “to go to hell.”

“What’s Harry got to do with Alice and her estate?”

“You know he’s been supporting you.”

I bristle. “And?”

“That means he’s been controlling you. Now you can shake him off. Fire him.”

“I never hired him! He’s been this invisible hand behind the scenes, driving so much.”

“Invisible father is more like it,” she says giving me a saucy look, like she’s on my side and ready for a rumble with him.

“Yeah. That, too.”

“How messed up is your life that having an invisible father who turns out to be a presidential candidate deserves a ‘that, too’?”

I try to laugh. I can’t.

“I came over because I know you and Silas broke up.”

“Did we?” I snort. “Were we ever together?”

“You slept with him.”

“Yes.”

“I know Silas. That definitely means you were together.”

“How would you know? A guy like him probably sleeps with plenty of women.” It physically hurts to say those words.

“No. Not since Rebecca.”

“Rebecca?”

“His fiancée. Drew says he hasn’t dated or been with anyone since she died.”

“Silas told me that happened three years ago,” I gasp, incredulous.

She shrugs. “Just passing on what I know.”

“Three years? He’s... no one for three years?”

“How many guys have you slept with in the last three years?”

I hold up one finger to indicate Silas.

“Same,” she says with a strange laugh. “One guy. Drew. And no one else, ever.” She clearly doesn’t include what happened to her that infamous night.

I wouldn’t, either.

“Sure, but... it’s different for Silas. Right? I mean, he’s so powerful. Smart. Big. Perceptive and clever. Women must be all over him.”

“It doesn’t matter if women are all over him. What matters is which woman he wants to be all over, Jane.” Lindsay looks like she wants to tell me something more. I keep talking, though, more out of nervous habit. Absorbing what she’s saying about Silas is hard.

“Well, that’s not me now. For sure. He thinks I had something to do with his sister’s OD.”

“I know. That’s why I’m here,” she says with a sigh. “Drew’s convinced it’s true, too. Whatever tipster is sending them information, they’re credible enough for Drew to snap back into his ‘Jane is public enemy number one’ mode again.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t want to put you in a position where it’s awkward with Drew.”

She does a double take. “Who said it’s awkward?”

“You just–”

“Oh, no. Not awkward. It’s actually really basic. He’s wrong. I’m right. I think you’re being set up. Someone is scorching all the earth around you. He’s convinced you’re still lying about some things.” Her eyes narrow. “Pretty sure he’s right about that, but not the things he thinks.”

“Silas really thinks I got people to force his sister to OD? I would never, ever, in a million years do that. I wouldn’t know the first thing about how to do that. And I certainly had nothing to do with Drew or Mark Paulson’s parents’ deaths!”

“I’ve been saying the same thing. Stubborn ass. But he’s convinced you’re not sharing what you know, and that makes him suspicious.”

He’s right.

“I–remember the texts and the messages we used to get? The ones about sweepstakes and book reviews? Back when you were at the Island?”

“Sure. It’s how we communicated in secret. You’d leave a fake book review on a website and I’d decode it. You told me about the sweepstakes texts.” Her eyes get really big. “You got one? Recently?”

I figure I have nothing to lose confiding in Lindsay. I show her my phone.

“All witch hunts have a warlock,” she reads, giving me a puzzled look. “What the hell does that mean?”

“No idea. All my old messages from that informant were coded. I had to figure out the riddle.”

“This isn’t some simple riddle. Do you know some witches and warlocks?”

“Um, no.”

“Maybe it’s a metaphor. Like there’s something else. What do witches do?”

“Fly on brooms. Wear black. Cast spells. Have black cats,” I say in a voice that’s angrier than it should be.

“Maybe it has to do with people who own black cats? Pointing you to them?”

“I don’t know anyone who has one.”

“Did Alice?”

“No.” I snicker. “Does your mom?”

She smiles. “Wouldn’t that be appropriate? If we’re going to talk about witches, no conversation would be complete without mentioning her, right?”

“Right.”

Tilting her latte cup up, she finishes it off and stands, walking into the kitchen. I hear cabinet doors opening and closing. “Time for ice cream.”

“It is?”

“It’s always time for ice cream.”

“True.”

Two spoons and two pints later, I realize that while the ice cream tastes good, I have no appetite. Talking about Silas makes me feel shaky. I was ready to hunker down and eat crappy frozen food while watching junk television tonight, not explore Silas’s past and wonder why he went three years without dating or sleeping with anyone.

And then chose me.

No amount of chocolate or peanut butter in ice cream can make that go away.

“You seem distracted,” Lindsay says through a mouthful of chocolate goo.

“Want to go for a walk?”

“Now?” She looks outside. “It’s getting dark.”

“Let’s make Duff work for his paycheck.”

Reconsidering, she swallows, then smiles. “Yeah! Good point! Where to?”

“My favorite flower shop.”

“You want to go to a flower shop? Like a florist?”

“Yes.”

“You could choose a dance club. A bar. A coffee and wine house. A restaurant. You could choose anywhere you want, and you choose a flower shop?”

“It’s special.”

Lindsay cleans up the ice cream, dumps our spoons in the sink, pops the lids on the pints and puts them away. Then she looks at me.

“Any chance there are witches at the flower shop?”

“No, but they have Lily.” I hold up one finger and jog into my bedroom, fishing through my drawers for jeans. In under a minute I have respectable clothing on, and run a comb through my hair.

“Of course they have lilies. All flower shops do.” The way she corrects me makes her sound just like Monica. It’s jarring.

“No, Lily. The woman who works there.” We grab our purses and open the door to find Duff there, calm and collected.

“Where to? The flower store?” he asks.

Lindsay laughs.

“Yes,” I tell him. We make a beeline for the elevator. Duff murmurs into his earpiece. I hear Drew’s name.

“We’re walking, Duff, so–”

He cuts me off as we start down the stairs instead. “I’m sorry, but no. Strict orders from Drew. Lindsay can’t.”

Lindsay’s hard stop is so sudden, I crash into her back and Duff smacks up against me, pulling back quickly. She turns around from her position on the stairs a few steps below me and looks up, angry. “He said what?”

“His exact words involved obscenities over your unwillingness to listen to him,” Duff begins.

“I like it so far,” Lindsay cracks.

“But that open-air walking was a hard line. No public bathrooms alone. No small spaces. No open air.”

“Basically, I can live in a cage, then,” Lindsay grouses, giving me a sour look. “See what I deal with?”

“I know what you live with. Minus the husband part.”

Lindsay ignores the SUV parked right at the door of the stairwell and starts walking away, Duff on her tail. I scramble to catch up.

“You’re going the wrong way.”

She does a one-eighty. “Fine.”

“It’s not a big deal to take the car.”

“It is. You’ll understand more after you live with a husband who’s a freak about security.”

“Not going to happen.”

“I think Silas will come around.”

“You do?”

“I hear what he says when he comes over and works with Drew.”

“What does he say?”

“He mentions you. Defends you. There’s a look on his face when you come up. It’s adorable. And intense. It’s the look Drew has sometimes when he’s being open with me. It’s the look of a man head over heels in love, Jane.”

Duff’s behind us as Lindsay holds her head up high. I’m surprised we’re not being physically grabbed and thrown in the black SUV, but to my surprise, Romeo appears next to Duff, both of them walking behind us. Within seconds, Duff moves in front of us. Lindsay smirks.

“I’m gonna catch hell from the boss for this,” he tells her.

“The boss is catching hell from me, Duff, if it’s any consolation,” she replies.

We reach The Thorn Poke quickly, the lights on in the shop as twilight steals the rest of the day’s light. Lily’s working, arranging some hot pink and yellow monstrosity. Duff holds the door for us and we walk in.

Lindsay lets out a low whistle.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” I say.

“Uhh...” As her voice drops, I turn to see what’s wrong.

She’s staring at a rack of magazines in the corner.

I’m on all the covers.

And Silas and I are on a few.

Some lucky paparazzi got a long-distance photo of us at The Grove, kissing.

“Oh, no!” I half scream, half moan, the N in no caught behind my teeth. The kiss in the photo is hot and heavy, the kind of embrace you have with someone who wants you so badly, they’ll risk all to grab a few stolen moments of intimacy, urgency carrying the day.

“That’s... not good,” Lindsay says as Lily rushes over to me. Her face looks so guilty. She’s seen it all.

Hell, half the world has seen it all.

“Silas! He’s–we’re–caught.” I end my sentence with a clunky bang, regular speech out of my grasp right now. All those Tarzan jokes over the years are coming true.

Me Jane.

You Silas.

We screwed.

Lindsay’s phone rings. She makes a face, but answers.

Testosterone pours out of the speaker.

“No!” she says, pulling the phone away from her ear as Drew lets out a stream of self-righteous male berating. “No, Drew, I don’t care what you ordered Duff to do! I’m a grown-up, and I–”

More testosterone.

She’s upset. I’m jealous. Yes, jealous. I’m sure being hovered over by her husband is a pain, but it beats not having anyone care. Silas disappeared from my life three days ago. He’s avoiding me.

I’d give anything to have him yelling at me, protective and pissed, right now.

I look at the rack of tabloids. We’re on five covers.

Pretty sure he’s at least pissed at me.

One for two.

“Are you in trouble, too? Sounds like your friend’s getting yelled at by her boss for not being careful enough.”

“That’s her husband yelling.”

“Did she invent time travel?”

“Huh?”

“Because you’d have to go all the way back to the Paleolithic era to find a caveman like that.”

“No public bathrooms? What do you want me to do, Drew? Pee in the street?” Lindsay shouts, standing in front of a collection of mylar balloons with pink and blue booties on them.

Lily’s eyebrows go up. “Nice guy, huh?”

“A little overprotective.”

“You think?”

“He has reason to be. I didn’t get a chance to introduce you. That’s Lindsay Bosworth.”

“Am I supposed to know her?” Lily looks at her, then me. “Wait a minute. That name rings a bell.”

“Senator Bosworth’s dau– daughter.” I stumble on the word.

Lily’s face goes pale. “Wait–the Lindsay Bosworth? The one they say you helped get tortured?”

“The same.”

“You guys are friends now?”

“Yes.”

“You are really complicated, Jane.”

“Yes,” I admit, too tired to fight the characterization. “Yes, I am.”

Lindsay ends the call, clearly ready to throw the phone at a window or someone’s head. Drew’s head. But he’s not here.

“He says that Daddy is insisting on firing Silas for ‘taking advantage’ of you, Silas is off duty and not answering his phones. Drew doesn’t appreciate my ‘insubordination.’” Fire shoots out of her eyes. She looks like a very angry X-Men heroine.

“Insubordination?” I give a small golf clap. “Congratulations. That’s quite the accomplishment within a marriage.”

“It’s not funny.”

“No,” I say, smothering a smile. “It’s not.”

But Lindsay cracks, just a little, and snorts. “He’s such an ass.”

“Harry, or Drew?”

“Both. Drew says Silas’s job is seriously on the line.”

“Harry already tried to ban me from dating Silas.”

Lindsay’s gaze jerks to the left, sharply, as she notices Lily standing there, listening. “Do you mind?”

She sounds just like Monica.

“No!” Lily chirps. “Not at all!”

“Lindsay, meet Lily. Lily, meet Lindsay.” I give Lindsay a pointed look. “This is the woman I wanted you to meet.”

Lily giggles at the word woman. “Hi! Nice to meet you. I’m so glad they figured out you weren’t a slut like those awful friends of yours said you were.”

Lily could use a few social skills lessons.

“Thanks.” Lindsay looks like she’s smelling a sewer. “I guess.”

“Oh! That was a compliment,” Lily assures her.

“Good to get clarity,” Lindsay snarls.

Duff enters the store, sizes up Lily, ignores her, then turns to Lindsay. “We need to go. New orders.”

“But we just got here,” she whines.

He shrugs. “Boss. You know.” A glance at the door makes me turn and look.

To find Silas standing there.

Staring at the magazine rack.