Page 60

Boston, Massachusetts

“And that’s that.”The nurse smiled at her and handed the packet of papers to Maggie over the counter. “You’re all set.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Sure. Thanks.” She kept herself from laughing incredulously at the woman’s comment. “All set” to her apparently translated to being shoved into a halfway home with a monthly stipend from the state, mandatory meetings with her state-appointed psychiatrist, and no fucking clue who she was.

But being in a dumpy apartment in Chinatown was still probably better than being in the hospital. She was getting really sick of the food. She supposed she had an excuse. She’d been in Mass General for six weeks, and had every possible scan run on her that they had machines for.

She was really sick of MRIs.

Stupid loud-ass tubes.

“Good luck!” Her chipper nurse patted her on the shoulder then went off to deal with other patients.

It left Maggie standing in her hospital room alone, with only a bag of her pseudo personal belongings and the clothes she was wearing. “I guess I’ll go call a cab,” she muttered to nobody. Leaving the hospital felt…strange. Even though she didn’t want to be stuck there, it was oddly comforting to be constantly surrounded by people. She had no idea who she was, or why she woke up lying in Copps Hill Burying Ground in the middle of the night. She had no identity besides “Marguerite” and no one had come to “claim” her.

And her mind was plagued with visions of her death. Waking or sleeping, it didn’t matter. Again, and again, and again, she dreamed of dying by almost every means possible. And nobody in the hospital could tell her why or make it stop.

But at least she hadn’t been alone.

Walking out of the doors, she found herself not looking forward to her cruddy studio apartment, because there’d be nobody there with her.

“Marguerite?”

She jumped at the sudden voice. She turned—and blinked. Standing before her was easily the most handsome man she had ever seen in real life. He had bronze skin, as if he hailed from the middle east. His hair was pure, snow white, as was his goatee. His eyes were liquid silver. He wore an expensive suit that was entirely black, save for a tie that matched his eyes.

He smiled at her warmly. There was real tenderness there—real sympathy. He reached his hand out to her. “My name is Dr. Gideon Raithe. I’m your new psychiatrist. I thought perhaps I could give you a ride to your apartment.” His voice was deep and rumbly, but smooth like velvet.

“I—ah—um—” Her cheeks felt warm. Was she blushing? Holy shit, get hold of yourself. Placing her hand in his, she forced herself to smile. “Maggie. Nice to meet you.”

After shaking her hand, he pointed off down the street with a cane that he carried. It was clear it was for fashion and not for need. The top was a vulture, cast in silver. “My car is this way.” And with that, he turned and led the way.

I wound up with the weirdo eccentric doctor. Great. Go me.

She found herself staring at his ass and snickered quietly enough that he couldn’t hear her over the sounds of downtown.

At least he’s hot.