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I’m not talking to them—I don’t give a shit what they want. I’m talking to Ani. Her eyes lift to mine. They’re full of resolve.

“I want to prove them wrong,” she says.

I nod once. Then I step between her and her parents, blocking their view completely. Finn does the same.

Her mother stiffens. Her father doesn’t react at all.

“We’re done here,” I say, voice clipped. I reach back, and when Ani’s hand slides into mine, it’s shaking. I tighten my grip and guide her down the steps without another word.

They don’t follow.

But I feel their eyes on our backs the whole way to the truck.

Ani doesn’t speak until we’re inside, door closed, engine humming beneath us. When she does, it’s a whisper.

“They’re not going to stop.”

“No,” I answer. “They’re not.”

She turns her head, eyes meeting mine across the bench seat. “But neither am I.”

I reach for her hand again. “Good.”

Chapter 30

Ani

Idon’t say much on the drive to the evaluation office. Boone offered to come inside with me, but I said no. I wanted to prove to myself that I can do this alone.

Now I’m sitting on a low, vinyl-cushioned bench in a quiet lobby. My fingers are curled tight in the hem of my long-sleeve shirt. It’s comfortable but stylish enough to be presentable.

The receptionist calls my name. I stand on shaky legs.

The psychologist isn’t what I expected. She’s younger than I imagined. Black curly hair pulled into a low bun, kind eyes behind dark frames. She introduces herself—Dr. Delaney—and offers a smile that feels genuine. But that’s how it starts, isn’t it? They get you comfortable. Get you to talk. Then twist it.

I know Boone swears this woman can be trusted. She’s not on my father’s payroll and she comes with enough recommendations from Boone’s network that we know she can’t be bought. But still…I’m worried.

I sit up straight, hands folded in my lap. I keep my ankles crossed. I know the signs they’ll look for—shaking hands, nervous fidgeting, vacant stares. I do all of those things sometimes, but I’ve learned how to disguise them.

I’m not crazy. I just like things a certain way and the world gets too loud when I feel out of control. But I amnotcrazy.

She begins with some simple questions. She asks about my background, my childhood, my medical history. I answer each one slowly and carefully. She takes some notes and moves on to the next question.

Eventually, she asks about my current situation.

“Can you tell me why your family believes you may be experiencing a psychological break?”

Because I stopped obeying. Because I left. Because for the first time in my life, I made a choice that didn’t serve them. But I don’t feel like I can say that.

“They believe I was under too much pressure,” I say instead. “That I panicked.”

“And did you?”

I hesitate. “Yes. But not in the way they mean. I panicked because I felt trapped. I wasn’t having delusions. I wasn’t hallucinating. I didn’t forget who I was. I just…realized I didn’t want the life they were forcing on me.”

She nods. Jots something down. “And the fire at the motel?”

My throat tightens. “I had nothing to do with it.”