Page 4 of None Of Your Business

“I know.” I scuff my shoe on the gravel. “She always sleeps after she breaks.”

I don’t know why I offer that up. It just leaks out.

“That kind of exhaustion isn’t unusual after a bipolar episode.”

“So what?” I shake my head, kicking a stone aside. “You just pump her full of meds until she seems sane?”

“With the right treatment, she can live a full life.”

I wave a hand toward the house. “She was getting the right treatment. That’s what the last guy said.”

He doesn’t bite. He just stands there, letting my frustration bounce off him. “Sometimes medication needs adjusting. Finding the right combination can take time.”

I cross my arms. “Are you her new doctor?”

“No. This was a favor to Beckett. Your mother already has a team.”

Right. He didn’t have to come.

“Thanks,” I say, because I realize I sound like an asshole. “For helping her.”

He dips his chin once, then turns toward the car. As he grabs the handle, he pauses and looks back at me.

“You should have Beckett look at that leg.”

My head snaps up. “Excuse me?”

“You’re favoring it,” he says, glancing down before locking eyes with me. “Get it checked.”

I instantly shift my weight onto my bad leg. “I thought you were a psychiatrist?”

“I am.” He slides into the driver’s seat. “I notice things.” He pulls the door almost shut, then catches it with one hand. “Goodnight, littlest Callahan.”

I blink. “Hey—”

The door closes, the engine turns over, and the taillights disappear down the driveway.

Littlest Callahan?

I fucking hate that nickname.

Two

Present day

Rowan

I pry open one eye, immediately regret the life choices that brought me to this moment, and snap it shut. My stomach does a sickening roll, so I lie completely still and breathe through my nose until the nausea backs off enough for a second attempt.

The ceiling is wrong. Mine is high and white with exposed beams, but this one is smooth charcoal gray with an expensive-looking light fixture hanging dead center.

Maybe I redecorated.

No.

Even on my best day, I don’t have that kind of initiative.

I squint around at gray walls, floor-to-ceiling curtains, and dark wood furniture. There are no clothes tossed over chairs or half-finished canvases leaning against baseboards. I don’t recognize a single thing in this room.