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Her sister currently had her feet up on the dashboard of Shay’s car, like she thought it would piss her off. Max was always doing crap like that—testing boundaries, some well-meaning social worker had told Shay. Max wasn’t confident of her place in the house, and so she tried to push Shay to whatever limit she had just so she could see how bad the reaction was. A common tactic for traumatized and abused children.
But while Shay knew that Max felt like a burden to them, she also knew that Max could just be a run-of-the-mill bratty preteen who liked doing things to irritate people.
Anyway, it was Beau who cared about muddy prints in his precious truck, not Shay.
“Can we go to Galveston after therapy?” Max asked, still staring out the passenger-side window.
Shay jerked the wheel, nearly swerving into the oncoming lane of traffic. A pickup blared its horn at them, and Shay tossed a finger out the window because it wasn’t like she’d meant to cause trouble.
“Jesus.” Max was gripping the door handle for dear life.
“Don’t be dramatic,” Shay said, trying to sound normal. But there was only one way to get to Galveston. The thought of driving back down that same road, past the junkyard again ... past the gun—with Max in the car, no less—had Shay’s hands trembling.
“I almost justdied,” Max said, playing it up on purpose. Shay relaxed enough to laugh, because she always enjoyed Max’s sense of humor.
“Yeah, they’ll be building statues in your honor.” Shay’s heartbeat was still way above resting, but this back-and-forth was familiar. Easy to fake.
“So can we go?”
“We didn’t bring any of our stuff,” Shay said, and they both knew it was a delay tactic.
“You have a suit in the back, don’t lie,” Max said, thumbing over her shoulder to the mess behind them. Shay was 99.9 percent certain she was right. “And we can stop at the Bargain Beachware for a ten-dollar bikini for me.”
Max asked for so little, Shay hated to say no.
“I’ll pay for the ice cream,” Max said, a wheedle in her voice.
And that did it, as Max had probably known it would. Beau and Shay tried giving Max an allowance so she wouldn’t feel completely dependent on them, but they skipped more weeks than they followed through. For Max, two ice creams could wipe out half her savings.
It was moments like these that made Shay doubt herself. Doubt her memory of Max standing over a dead body, covered in blood.
“Okay,” Shay said. But then shot Max a look. “If you promise to really try with Dr. Greene today.”
Max went back to staring out the window, but she gave a soft “Fine,” which was practically a pinkie promise from her.
As acknowledgment, Shay turned up the Eminem for the rest of the drive to Dr. Tori Greene’s office.
Max pretended not to like the psychiatrist, but Shay was pretty sure Max kind of, almost, did. As much as she ever liked any adult.
When they arrived, Tori stuck her head out of her office, smiling when she saw them.
Tori was one of those hot older Texas ladies—one who looked so much like the wife onFriday Night Lightsthat Shay had to actively remind herself not to call her Tami Taylor. She was in her late forties or early fifties, and was proof that God had favorites. Even at her age, she still had luscious, wavy hair. While the strawberry-blonde coloringlikely came from a salon, that kind of volume couldn’t be faked. Her skin care routine must have been impeccable her entire life, because her face was smooth and glow-y despite the fact that she laughed easily and smiled even quicker.
Both Shay and Max—and Beau, really—had trust issues with mental health professionals, especially ones who were court mandated. But Tori Greene was tolerable, at least.
Tori didn’t do any dumb crap like tell Max to just call her Tori or exclude her from conversations with Shay and Beau. She kept her office filled with dozens of real plants, and hung paintings that were actually interesting instead of the dull landscapes and color blocks that Max’s first four psychiatrists had favored. She kept both candy bars and healthy snacks in the waiting room, as well as a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf full of romances, Westerns, thrillers, and all the latest YA fantasy heptalogies.
“We got the latest in that series you were reading,” Tori told Shay with a little eyebrow wriggle. It was one of thoseFifty Shades of Greyrip-offs, but Shay was hooked.
Max made gagging sounds as she sidestepped Tori into the office.
“Keep that up and you’re getting a dramatic recitation at the beach,” Shay called after her.
Tori laughed, a husky, well-used sound, and winked as she closed the door.
Shay grabbed the book, mostly to put on a show for Chrissy, Tori’s nosy secretary. She couldn’t focus enough to actually read, though.
Can we go to Galveston?