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I can’t. Won’t. And I don’t know why. Maybe because although I don’t like him, I respect him. Envy him a little—his control and maturity. Or I don’t want to disappoint Jameson by getting kicked out of here.

Or maybe, some part of me realizes this is the last house on the block. This is either where I end, or where I begin.

“No.”

“Why not?” he asks, more curious than I’ve ever heard him.

I look out a window and try to appreciate the sunset’s daily artwork. “Because I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Lie,” he says, so calmly that I bristle. “Do you think telling me would give me power over you? That I would then abuse that power?”

I blink, stunned at his admission—his mistaken impression that he has any power over me at all. My heels drop to the floor and laughter bubbles in my throat.

“Are you serious right now? You think that because you have a bunch of facts about my life you have power over me? That you can jerk me around like a puppet? I don’t dance for anyone, Doc!”

One dark eyebrow cocks upward. “I was speaking in terms of doctor/patient confidentiality, Amelia. What kind of power were you referring to?”

Dear God, get me out of this nightmare.

I rub my face roughly with my hands, then drag my fingers through my hair to the crown of my head. Whatever expression I’m wearing must be alarming because for the first time in our more than six hours of conversation, Chastain reacts.

With swift grace, he kneels on the floor before my chair. The heat of his chest radiates onto my legs. For a pregnant moment, his hands hover over my knees, then fall to his sides.

“Are you all right?” he asks, eyes scanning my features.

Unnerved by his proximity, I sneer. “If I were all right, do you think I’d be in a treatment facility for fucked-up adult children?”

He lowers back onto his heels, the fabric of his slacks pulling tight against the muscles of his thighs. “What I think is you’re an intelligent, capable woman, and I have faith that our work will be… what did you call it earlier? Ah, yes. Transformational.”

It’s the gleam of humor in his eyes that undoes me. I laugh. The itch in my bones subsides.

Blue eyes still dancing, he rises smoothly to his feet. “That’s all for this evening, Amelia. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He turns away, and I’m dismissed.

5

NUTS FOR THE FARM

DAY 8

The facility doesn’t have a name. No website or media presence. No official purpose statement.

Callum first found out about it when another male model, a close friend, disappeared for six months before reappearing a changed man. Prior to his vanishing act, he suffered from debilitating panic attacks and agoraphobia, both of which had brought his career to a standstill. The astounding success of his treatment stayed in the back of Callum’s mind for a year, until the day he hit his personal rock bottom and asked his friend for details.

“He called it Oasis.” Callum’s words are punctuated by puffs as we jog side by side. The circular trail around the facility is two miles. We’re on our second go-around.

I wipe sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand. “And gave you a phone number or something?” I pant.

He nods. “Yeah. I felt like I was in a spy movie. It was a voicemail service with no message. Just a beep. I must have dialed a hundred times before I finally left a message.”

“Huh.”

He glances at me. “Can I ask a question? A kind of personal one?”

We’re approaching the doors of the Fish Tank. I slow to a walk and Callum matches my pace, swigging water before handing me the bottle. I take several swallows, then wipe my mouth.

“Yeah, sure. But I might not answer.”