Page 7

For a minute, no one speaks. Even Frank looks flummoxed. Finally, he offers, “We all belong here. We are all exactly where we should be.”

The itch on my skin is now in my bones. I think of Jameson and his twitching eyelid, and then about our sixteenth birthday party—I gave his best friend of five years a blow job in the garage while everyone ate cake. Jameson blamed his friend, not me. It ruined their relationship.

“I’m a horrible person,” I say flatly. “I use people. I eat them up and spit them out. I don’t care about anyone. I love my brother, but that’s it. Everyone else can burn.”

“Tell us how you really feel,” murmurs Callum.

I glance at him, an eyebrow raised. “Did you think we were friends? I’m sorry. The only reason I talk to you is because you won’t leave me alone.”

Hurt flashes across his face before he turns to look out a window. I don’t feel regret.

I don’t feel anything.

The door opens. Everyone looks except me. I already know who it is. Some sixth sense warned me of his approach, like an aching joint before a storm.

“Amelia. Come with me.”

Someone being pulled from group isn’t uncommon. It happens almost every day. We all know Dr. Chastain watches and listens to the afternoon sessions from the sanctuary of his office.

This is the first time I’ve been summoned, though. I’m kind of proud it’s taken almost a full week.

“You got it, boss,” I chirp, jumping to my feet.

By the time I reach the doorway, it’s empty, Chastain’s suited frame dwindling down the hall.

Lengthening shadows creep along the walls as I cross the Fish Tank, vacant but for a staff member watering plants. Outside, the sun hangs low to the west. Atop the smokey blue canvas of the sky are angry streaks of orange and magenta, broken in intervals by gleaming white clouds.

I turn from the sight and walk into the hallway that houses offices, medical exam rooms, and presumably, a security monitoring station. The only room I’ve been in is the one I now approach, its open doorway a portal of light against a backdrop of shadowed walls.

Pausing on the threshold, I allow myself to feel the hammering of my pulse. I don’t want to be here.

4

PUZZLE PIECES

DAY 6

Across the room, Dr. Chastain stands with his back to me. He removes his suit jacket and hangs it on his desk chair. His movements, as always, are elegant and precise.

Standing just outside the glow from several lamps, I watch him loosen his tie, then unbutton his cuffs and roll the fabric up his forearms. The skin revealed is muscled and bronze, dusted lightly with dark hair.

With the long fingers of one hand resting on the desk, he lifts his head and turns until his profile is visible. Stern mouth that, in brief moments of repose, softens to sinful fullness. A nose almost too long for his face, but that perfectly complements the sharp lines of his jaw.

The muscles of his back bunch as he shifts again, just enough to glance in my direction. “If you’re done with your examination, I’d like to speak with you.”

That he knows I was ogling him doesn’t embarrass me. He’s fully aware I think he’s hot; I told him so in our first session. His only response was a scowl and a stern command to sit.

Dr. Chastain sighs. “Amelia.”

Pleased to have elicited a response—a sigh from him is the equivalent of another man’s scream—I smile and flop into his usual seat during our private sessions. Throwing my bare, tanned legs over the arm of the oversized leather chair, I examine my fingernails.

“Was it the comment about being a horrible person?” I ask idly. “I was just trying to dig up some sympathy from my fellow inmates.”

The rustle of his pants brings my eyes up. Chastain leans against his desk, arms crossed over his chest. Perfect black hair gleams in the light from a nearby lamp.

I really, really want to scratch my fingers through those thick strands and pull them into disarray. I also want to shave him bald. Maybe get rid of his eyebrows, too, which are currently drawn together in a frown.

“Why do you think you’re here, Amelia?”