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Turning to my computer I quickly type in her name. “I got a late start today myself, so we’re all good.”

I scan her notes quickly then turn to give her a smile, picking up my pen and taking out my notepad.

“I did what you said… about the lies.” Her voice goes quiet as she says the word.

“This isn’t about judgment.” I smile reassuringly. “Sometimes lies are a defense mechanism.”

“Last year, I told my teacher I was allergic to perfume.”

My head tilts to the side. “How did that help you?”

“She let me sit in the hall with the door open during class.”

I nod, waiting. I make a note on the paper, giving her a chance to say more if she wants.

“You told me to put down why… It’s Madelyn Frist.”

Our eyes meet, and my expression softens. “Does she make you uncomfortable?”

“She says I’m stupid.” Riley’s voice gets louder. “She says I don’t belong here. I’m white trash. I need to go back to hillbilly West Virginia where I came from. She calls me a loser…”

The rage simmering inside me over Gray sparks to life in my chest. My anger with people pushing others down, telling them they’re not good enough tries to overflow. Just in time, I grab the reins, making a Note to Self on my notepad: Calm down.

“Your school should have a policy against bullying.” I clear the thickness from my throat. “Have you tried talking to a teacher?”

“Then I’ll have to confront her. They’ll bring us all in a room together, and I’ll have to look at her face…”

“How do you feel about telling your mother?”

“No.” It’s a little cry, and I exhale slowly.

“Okay. I’m not trying to make you uncomfortable.” Putting my hand on my chest, I smile calmly. “Let’s practice breathing. Inhale… Exhale.”

Her face is fixed in anger, but I continue. “Inhale… exhale.”

It’s as much for me as it is for her, and after the third time, she relents, inhaling deeply and exhaling slowly.

“That’s good.” Lowering my hand, I look at the white pad in front of me. “You shouldn’t feel afraid at school. Maybe we can work out some strategies for dealing with Madelyn and staying in the classroom.”

The last portion of her hour, I let her lead the way on things she can do to work around Madelyn. After Riley leaves, I make a note in her file to work on empowering her to go to a teacher or a trusted adult for help.

Ruby hasn’t been in, and I shoot her a text to be sure she’s okay. She says she has a stomach bug, and I tell her to rest and keep me posted.

I spend a good portion of the afternoon researching PTSD, symptoms, treatments, duration of the illness. Gray was right about one thing—the prognosis is scary.

People with PTSD are prone to substance abuse, they’re more likely to suffer mental illness, they exhibit higher rates of abusive behaviors, and worst of all, they’re more likely to commit suicide.

All of it twists my stomach in knots, and by the time I leave for the day, I’m angry, sad, and exhausted.

Driving the Jag past the garage, I slow down to look inside. My chest warms when I see Gray standing with Billy, looking at that Chevy. He’s so brave in spite of everything that’s happened. He came back here, he opened the garage, and no matter what he says, he’s never shown any signs of rage or abusive behavior. He moves to the side, and I smile, letting my eyes drift from his square jaw to his broad shoulders, his strong hands…

The car behind me honks, and I jump, continuing on to my house and not flipping them off.

When I enter the house, my dad is in the kitchen standing over a platter of lasagna.

“Where did this come from?” I drop my purse on the counter, looking around. “Did you cook?”

“Florence Stern brought it over.”