I’m exhausted already. Not only from my long walk to avoid my tail, but because of everything that has happened. That keeps happening. My pace is slow and dragging, but eventually it gets me to Elizabeth’s

 

office, where she invites me in as though it were just another day. It’s not.

 

She doesn’t even mention that this appointment is at her request, not

 

mine.

 

Or that Reese is gone.

 

The only reason I’m even there is to keep up the appearance that

 

everything is normal—that I’m still the ignorant child they think I am. My emotions are completely muddled; I’m angry and frustrated and confused, and desperation is slowly devouring me from the inside. I know I need to do something; I just don’t know what.

 

However, the first thing I have to do is sit through at least fifteen more minutes of BS with Elizabeth. Then I can make my escape. Until then, I’m stuck here with my lying shrink, trying to convince her I’m okay.

 

I’m not good at lying. But I’m pretty good at not saying anything at all. So, here we are at a total impasse as I sit silently on her couch and try not to glare at her. Or maybe just glare on the inside.

 

Part of me wishes I could just spill everything, but after yesterday I know it’s impossible. I scoff inwardly at how close I came to telling her about making stuff out of thin air.

 

What would she have told Reese then? I vividly remember Reese’s all-too-serious question: Is she too damaged? If I had confessed it all, would Elizabeth have said yes?

 

“Why don’t you want to talk, Tavia?” Elizabeth asks, after I let too much time pass in silence. She’s calm and quiet, but I swear I can hear the frustration bubbling beneath the surface like a river of lava.

 

Or maybe it’s my imagination.

 

If it was, how would I know the difference?

 

“I have nothing to talk about,” I burst out, the thought of Quinn’s refusal to tell me anything unraveling my patience. “I don’t even know why I’m here; I’m fine!”

 

I rub my neck; it’s sore from carrying my lies, and the tight control I used to have on my temper is gone.

 

Now Elizabeth sighs and it sounds real, but I know better. “Tavia, I have no idea what’s changed, but I’ve lost your trust.”

 

Liar.

 

She straightens and then leans forward, her elbows on her knees. “I don’t know how to convince you that all I want is for you to be okay. You used to believe that.”

 

I did used to believe it. I wish I still did. She has no idea how much I wish it.

 

“You didn’t bring a new sketch.” Her voice is calm, casual. Her shrink voice.

 

That’s because you’d just show it to Reese and Jay. “I had homework,” I mumble, staring down at my fingers twisting around each other until they ache. Homework, creating things from thin air, the problem of two boys who’ve each laid claim to half of my heart, whatever you want to call it.

 

“Have you seen Quinn again?” Elizabeth continues without pausing to give me a chance to deny it. “It would be natural to want to keep a new romance like this secret—special, I guess. But you know you can tell me anything.”

 

Right. I sift through the last few days, wondering if there’s anything I can tell her—something true to keep her swallowing my lies.

 

But I hesitate too long. Her shrink instincts latch on and she pounces like a cat.

 

“Come on, Tavia. Talk to me,” Elizabeth pleads. “I know strange things are happening to you. That’s what I’m here for. To help you understand.” She reaches out and grabs my wrist before I can draw away, her fingers tight against my skin. “I want you to understand, Tave. Everything. But you’ve got to give me something to work with.”

 

“Th-there isn’t anything,” I insist, pulling my hand back hard. But even if the stutter hadn’t given me away, my words are obviously a lie. “I haven’t seen him.”

 

Elizabeth studies me for a long time until I squirm. I don’t like the look in her eye.

 

Not because it looks dangerous, but because it looks safe.

 

She’s as good an actress as Reese—maybe better. I meet her eyes and all I can see is genuine fondness, a real concern and desire to help.

 

Maybe I want it so badly I’m making myself see it.

 

Or maybe I’m just easy to trick. The last eight months certainly support that theory.

 

But those eyes . . .

 

“Are we done?” I barely whisper the words, but it’s enough of a distraction to let me rip my gaze away from hers—to break the hypnotic influence she seems to have on me. Our session is less than half over, but we’ve always had the rule that I can leave if I feel the need.

 

And I am feeling the need.

 

“Are we?” she asks.

 

I don’t look at her; I can’t. I just nod and pick up my backpack from beside the couch and tromp to the door.

 

“I . . . I’ve been speaking with your aunt lately,” Elizabeth says, stopping me.

 

I manage to not snort in derision.

 

But only just.

 

“And I know she’s gone on an important business trip for a couple days.” Elizabeth hesitates and my nerves are suddenly tingly. I glance back, my fingertips resting on the doorknob, itching to escape.

 

Something’s crackling in the air—a change—and it frightens me.

 

“When she returns, we’re going to try a different method of . . . of therapy. I think you’ll like it,” she adds.

 

I nod and my fingers pull on the knob, granting me my escape. I slip through the doorway without opening it fully, hoping she doesn’t see the quaver in my now-weak knees.

 

They’re really going to try it, the pull or whatever it’s called—the thing that she’s afraid will fry my brain.

 

Thoughts of electricity and hot acid float through my head and I try not to dwell on them—surely she wouldn’t.

 

But then, what the hell do I know about what Elizabeth would and wouldn’t do?

 

I fight the urge to run out of the office as her words echo through my head. I don’t know how to convince you that all I want is for you to be okay. You used to believe that.

 

Am I so gullible that I believe everything I hear?

 

Maybe.

 

As I step out from under the awning in front of the office building— it’s raining again, of course—I pull my hood up against the wind and the drizzling mist, blocking out my peripheral vision. I almost miss the guy standing on the northern corner of the parking lot.

 

I’d have ignored him entirely if I didn’t—even in my panic-driven haze—recognize him.

 

Recognize his sunglasses.