“I have another condition,” I inform him. As charmed as I am by the offer to spend time with his niece, I need more. Every part of the world feels like a sharp dagger pointed at me. Each molecule is a threat. As I breathe in and out, I’m inhaling threats and exhaling denial.

It’s exhausting.

“Of course you do.”

“You have to open up and give me more information about threats. You have to. Drew’s being an asshole.”

“Drew is doing his job.”

I’ve ruffled Silas, who clearly doesn’t like my criticism of his boss and friend.

“And I am protecting my sanity. I can’t have some crazed man sneak into my... father’s estate using his personal code and start shooting at me and be kept in the dark.”

“That is really all there is to know.” He shrugs. Blinking hard, he’s trying to be neutral and cool.

You can’t fold emotions and put them back in a Do Not Show box when you’ve kissed someone as passionately as Silas has kissed me. Once you cross that line, that’s it.

Show anger? Passionate hate? Incredulous disgust? Sure.

But lying to someone whose hands have held you bound to them while your lips and tongue whisper secrets through strokes and aches, fevered bites and longing licks?

No.

“Silas. If you want me to trust you, you either need to tell me the truth or become a much, much better liar. That is bullshit and you know it.”

“Let’s talk on the car ride to my place.”

Grudgingly, I move with him toward the SUV, because really–what choice do I have?

“I’ll have clean clothes for you there. Someone was supposed to deliver them by now,” he adds.

I halt. “You set this up before I said yes?”

“I was reasonably confident you’d agree.”

“You were cocky.”

“Same thing.”

“Not the same thing.” I stop walking. I turn to him. The sun makes it impossible to see his eyes, but I know he’s laughing at me.

“You’re argumentative.”

“I am defending my boundaries.”

“That’s another way to put it. Come on. Let’s get you into a shower.”

I make a sound that suggests he’s being inappropriate.

“Look at your skin, Jane. You’re covered in glass shards and blood. You need to clean and dress all of that. In fact, maybe an ER is a better option than my place.”

The thought of going to a hospital, of the endless forms and discussions and explanations, feels worse than dealing with pain. “No. Fine. Your place. But I am not living there.”

“I understand.”

“And if you have ice cream in your freezer, I will eat it all.”

“Are you done listing conditions?”

“One more. If you really are taking me out on a date, I’m getting lobster, buddy. Lobster tails and filet mignon. I am going to be high maintenance.”

He smothers a smile with his hand.

“And that is different from–what?”

I glare at him.

But I love his laugh. “Go for it. Add a bottle of Dom Perignon, Jane. Live it up.”

“Yes!”

“I’m sure you’re worth it.”

“But don’t think because you’re buying me dinner that I’m a sure thing.”

“I don’t assume anything when it comes to you,” he says, his voice full of warmth.

“You used to.”

“My mistake.” He looks pretty happy for a guy who was so wrong.

“You admit you were wrong?”

“Of course.”

“Most guys don’t.”

“I’m not most guys.”

Thank God.

I lean back and close my eyes, letting Silas command the clean SUV along the surface roads before we hit the I-5. Thick traffic seems to bother him. He drives just enough on the shoulder to take the next exit.

“Why are you going this way?” I ask.

“Gridlock makes us a sitting target.”

“You think someone might shoot at us on the I-5?” After what we just went through, I know he’s right. Suddenly, traffic isn’t just an annoying given in Southern California.

It’s directly connected to my ability to stay alive.

“They infiltrated The Grove. That speaks to an inside job. I don’t rule any danger out.” Scanning the horizon, he looks at every lane, every car, eyes moving as if he’s been programmed.

Because he has.

“Inside job? If I had to lay bets, I’d pick Monica Bosworth.” I’m totally joking, but realize he’s not laughing. I look at him. Grim lines bookend his mouth, his jaw tight.

“Silas? You guys think Monica was behind the shooter?”

“No,” he says slowly. “But we can’t rule any suspects out.”

“She’s close to being the first lady of the United States! You think she would give an intruder her husband’s private code so the guy could come to their estate and kill me?”

“It sounds crazy,” he confirms.

“It is crazy.”

“We rule nothing out.”

“Sounds like you’re ruling Monica in as a suspect.” Secretly, the thought gives me a hopeful thrill. If evil has a face, it’s hers. At the same time, years of knowing her as Lindsay’s aloof, power-hungry mother fill me with an unearned soft spot for her. All those years of vacations weren’t that bad. She could be witty and funny.

As long as you weren’t the target of her sharp tongue.

“Think about it, Jane. Your paternity was just revealed, Monica’s cheating and Lindsay’s paternity were part of that meeting–and within minutes someone tries to shoot you on Senator Harwell Bosworth’s personal grounds? The guy got past all our security. You don’t do that without an insider feeding you information.” He gives me a sideways glance that makes me groan.

“Drew thinks I’m responsible, doesn’t he?”

Silas goes quiet, making a left turn, the sound of the blinker filling the space between us.

I keep my eyes closed and try not to move. Every time I move, my skin stings.

“You’re smarter than anyone ever warned me,” he finally says, voice rueful and admiring.

“If that is supposed to be a compliment, you’re really, really terrible at them.”

“It’s meant to be a compliment.”

“If my intelligence comes as a surprise, you haven’t been paying attention.”

“Is that an insult?”

“Yes.”

“You’re very good at them.”

“I’m also good at compliments.”

“And Candyland,” he adds drolly.

I’m caught off guard by the reminder of Kelly. “I am,” I reply, softening my tone. “How is she?”

“About what you’d expect. Mom and I broke the news to her gently. It was... hard.” His voice chokes with emotion as he swings the car to the left again, veering around a delivery truck before turning.

“I’m so sorry.” The enormity of what Silas is living with makes it hard to breathe.

He nods.

My eyes fill with tears. I reach up to wipe one away and accidentally drag a small sliver of glass across my cheek, scratching myself. The teardrop drips into the open wound, stinging more.

“If I can help in any way,” I start to say, but emotion overcomes me.

“Jane,” he says gently. “You have more than enough on your plate. Kelly will be fine. She’s a sweet little kid who misses her mommy. My mother and I are handling it. She has two adults who love her very much. That’s more than most people have. If anyone needs help, it’s you.”

“My needs are simple. I just need people to stop trying to kill me.” Crack! Crack! The sound of the bullets flying past us a few minutes ago echoes through me. From car bombs to someone killing Tara to a mad gunman–my “simple” life isn’t ever happening.

The tears just keep rolling.

“That simple, huh?” he asks rhetorically.

“Right. Seriously. If they would just stop, I could pick up all the destroyed parts of my life and try to build a new one.” Sniff.

“You know that’s not how this works.”

“Shhhhh.”

“Why are you hushing me?”

“Because all I really have left is the ability to live in a state of denial when needed, and you’re stripping it away.” I wipe my tears with the heel of my hand, watching for glass. A right turn, then a left, and suddenly we pull into an underground parking garage.

“This isn’t your apartment building,” I note.

“No. We’re changing cars.”

“Oh.”

A quiet peace settles between us as I obediently follow him. He punches a key code into the door handle of a boring navy sedan and motions for me to climb in. The car smells like pineapple air freshener that has baked into the cloth interior. It reminds me of my mother’s car for no reason whatsoever.

I drop my head and let myself cry.

Silas says nothing, his silence one of companionship. He isn’t awkward or tense. He’s just there, a presence. I can lower all my defenses and feel what I’m actually feeling in real time. No need to store this away to be dealt with later.

I have more than enough of a historical archive to mine in future days when life has calmed down.

If it ever calms down.

The thought of living like this for the rest of my life horrifies me.

And makes me cry harder.

My chest starts to to constrict, throat tightening, my lungs working harder and harder to get enough air. Every time I start to feel calmer, all the small abrasions on my skin scream. Too many parts of my inner and outer self need attention at the same time.

What do organisms do when they cannot handle an overwhelming amount of stimuli?

They self-destruct.

There is a point where living with your own mind becomes its own torture. You can’t turn off the racing neurons. You can’t stop processing trauma. You can’t quell the endless screaming inside. People turn to drugs or alcohol or food or sex or gambling to transform internal pain into an external release, but it just manages symptoms.

It never cures what causes all that crazymaking.

Ultimately, you’re trapped by... you.

I know it’s a temporary state. If I just get a hot shower, some food, and some rest, then tomorrow will be better. Call me the Scarlett O’Hara of the twenty-first century. Tomorrow is another day.

But damned if getting through today doesn’t feel like an endless saga to endure. My own private war.

“Need a tissue?” Silas asks, bending toward me to open a compartment. A small tissue box is in there, next to a few blister packs of pain-relief medicine and some peppermints.

“No. If I wipe my tears again, I’ll just scratch myself with glass. I’ll shower and cry in there.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“I’m sorry you have to feel all of this.”

“Me, too. I’m sorry you can’t even be with your mother and niece right now. All because of me.”

“I... I’m not here because I have to be, Jane.”

“But you’re working.”

“Yes, I am. But this job shifted from work to personal long ago. You know that.”

His words make me cry harder. This time, there is texture to my sobs. I’m a mixture of pleasure and pain, of sorrow and joy, of hope and despair.

And that is all Silas’s fault.

We pull into his apartment complex in more silence. This time it’s even deeper, this need to cry. I’m too raw, inside and out, to make sense of anything. The kinder he is to me, the more bewildered I am. It was so much easier to co-exist with him when I thought he hated me. There was clarity.

This? It’s so much better and at the same time, so much more fraught with danger.

Because it’s not my safety I’m worried about with Silas.

It’s my heart.