Page 3

Then again, crazy people rarely think they are.

Sliding onto the smooth leather back seat, I duck to see my brother one last time. Shadows blanket me while sunlight highlights his handsome, weary face.

Apropos.

“Catch ya later, Alligator,” I taunt.

His lips curve in a small smile. “In a while, Crocodile.”

The door slams closed.

2

THE STORIES WE TELL

DAY 6

There isn’t much to the story. My story.

My mother and younger brother died in a car accident when Jameson and I were seven. Their deaths broke something fundamental in my father and he hasn’t been the same since. It’s nothing external. If anything, his career as a defense attorney took off in the years following the accident. But we lost both parents that day.

Jameson and I are fraternal twins. It’s not as bad for him—he resembles my father. But I’m a spitting image of my mother, which is why my father can’t stand to look at me.

Yeah, it’s fucked up that my father checked out emotionally from his remaining children after the death of his wife and son. It hurt as a kid, and occasionally still does. But as an adult, at least I understand where he’s coming from. He’s only human.

My teenage years were tumultuous. I didn’t have an outlet for channeling my frustration and grief, not like my father did with work and Jameson with sports. So I ended up in a lot of trouble. Misdemeanor stuff and reckless stunts.

My record, though, is squeaky clean. Special thanks go to Harrison T. Sloan, dad-of-the-year, and one of the state’s top defense attorneys.

“And that’s it in a nutshell.” I end my spiel with a sigh. “Just a misspent youth that’s finally caught up with me. Sorry to waste your time.”

I’m not actually sorry—I’m annoyed.

This is the sixth day, my sixth private therapy session in which I’ve repeated the same damn story. Thank God there’s no therapy on Sundays; I might lose my shit.

This time, there’s a ten-second pause, then the figure sitting in a leather armchair opposite me says, “Tell me more about your mother.”

I uncross my legs, then recross them. The voice, dark and deep, ripples through the following silence. It’s not a voice easily ignored; neither is the attached body. I’ve always had a thing for men who wear glasses.

I blow out a breath, wisps of hair riding the draft and tickling my cheek. “Look,” I begin, staring at my knees, “I already told you, I barely remember her. She sang a lot. Braided my hair. Read me bedtime stories. She died. It’s sad. There’s no drama there.”

“Amelia—”

“Mia,” I correct.

Dr. Chastain is a consummate professional. His voice lacks any trace of irritation as he asks, “And what about your father’s second wife? Can we talk about her?”

My startled eyes snap to his face. “How the hell do you know about Jill? What did that bitch say?”

He’s unaffected by my outburst. An ocean of unflappability. “Ms. Richmond declined to speak with me, but their marriage and subsequent divorce is public record.”

Pale blue eyes lower briefly to the notepad in his lap. I breathe a little easier without their attention.

“I did find a picture of her just prior to the divorce.”

Uh-oh.

Long, elegant fingers lift a single sheet of paper, angling the printed image in my direction. It’s Jill, all right—with no eyebrows, her visible skin a mottled orange.