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“My uncle said you’re the best.” Jack Sullivan’s gaze runs up and down my casual dress and I can’t shake the feeling that, based on my appearance, he distinctly disagrees with his uncle. But, as it happens, I disagree with his uncle, too.

“I’m not the best.” Typical Mark. He oversells. “I don’t force any one methodology. I support as much as I can. Ultimately, it’s the individual who has to choose recovery.” I tilt my head, matching Jack’s questioning head tilt. This is such a waste of time. “If you don’t want me here…”

“I’ll go check on Alex.” Mr. Wolfgang’s voice reminds me that Jack Sullivan and I aren’t alone.

“Ask Sophia to come up,” Jack says to Ryan in a tone heavy with resignation.

“Mark,” I say, causing Jack’s eyebrow to shoot up, so I adjust my phrasing, “your uncle mentioned that Sophia has been resistant to meeting with therapists.”

“If Sophia agrees to meet with you, we’ll need you to sign a nondisclosure agreement.”

On the bright side, it sounds like he’s giving her a choice.

Sure, plenty of addicts have rehab forced on them, but based on what I’ve gathered from the newspaper, this man’s daughter isn’t an addict.

She was kidnapped. She’s suffering from trauma.

And if she’s not ready for therapy, Mr. Dominant may need to locate some patience.

I can’t take the stare off, so while he continues to glare, I peruse his palatial residence. The furniture and fancy art and sculptures probably cost a fortune, but it’s all gaudy and cold. The design elicits the same kind of feeling as when you walk into an uptight church and feel underdressed.

Footfalls on marble echo through the chamber.

We both turn toward the distant sound. A waif-like girl enters.

She’s wearing a pink swimsuit cover-up that’s wet from the waist down.

Her blonde hair sits in a twisted messy bun on the top of her head.

She looks nothing at all like her father.

Her too-thin arms and knobby knees have me questioning if the articles in the newspaper were at all accurate, because she’s got the body of someone who did heroin more than just once or twice.

Coral nail polish glistens on short nails, hiding her nail beds.

She approaches us, crosses her arms over her flat chest, and her loud yell cracks through the silence with the force of a bull whip.

“Seriously?”

Her dad blinks.

“You’re bringing in grunge queens now? Are you growing that desperate?

You don’t get it. You’ll never get it because you’ll never go through what I went through.

Give it a rest. So what if I’m not ready to hang out with my friends?

Don’t punish me for not being the perfect little girl.

This is…” She waves her slim hand in my general direction with a dramatic flair worthy of an entitled teen. “Why won’t you listen to me?”

Whoa . I hold up my palm.

“Look. If she doesn’t want to do this, I shouldn’t be here. It doesn’t mean she’ll never get therapy. It just means she’s not ready right now.”

The girl blinks, and her stance softens.

The power is in her hands. With recovery, her father can’t force her to do squat.

“That’s it?” her dad asks, hands on his hips, anger directed at me.

“Listen to your daughter. Like, actually hear her and process what she’s saying.”

“See?” Sophia interjects. “I don’t need a therapist.”

“I didn’t say that.” I address the young girl with a soft smile, letting some of the annoyance with her jerk of a father dissipate.

“Therapy is good for anyone. As I understand it, you experienced trauma. Every person experiences trauma differently. Different emotions, conflicting emotions, can bubble up at the damnedest times. It’s good to talk through those emotions.

Give them names. Naming emotions can be healing.

But only when you’re ready.” I look between father and daughter.

They don’t want me here, and that’s not a formula for success.

I’ll let Patrick and Mark know I showed up as a favor to them, but there’s nothing for me to do here. “Best of luck to you both.”

Sophia’s aqua eyes swim in her pale skin.

The newspaper stories described her as fifteen, but her thin frame would have me guessing she’s twelve.

Assuming she’s not getting high regularly.

Her lips soften. Not into a smile, exactly, but I suspect it’s appreciation I’m seeing.

This poor girl has been through so much.

She needs someone to listen, but she’s not ready to talk.

She may never be ready to relive it. Some aren’t.

Recovery takes time, and the process is unique for all.

There are many things in this world I do not know and do not understand. But as a recovering addict, I do know there is no magical pill to swallow and no yellow brick recovery road. It’s a climb up from hell, and each person has to find her own foothold, over and over and over again.

“Sophia. Take care of yourself.” I offer her a soft smile, and she dips her chin in a way that indicates a timid nature, quite the contrast to the defiance when she entered.

A shiver climbs my spine as my boots click across the marble and his gaze heats my back. Intimidation? Fear? I refuse to glance over my shoulder as I pull the heavy glass and iron front door handle and step into the bright sunshine.