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I met her unblinking gaze. She was not going to give up.

“Dylan,” I whispered.

She cocked her head to one side, puzzled. “Your guardian? Why?”

“He doesn’t want to be looking after a grieving teenager.”

She frowned. “Has he said so?”

I shook my head.

“Has he given you any indication that he doesn’t want you here?”

Has he?

He’d been nothing but kind to me since the accident, except when he was angry this morning.

I want you to understand that this is your home now.

“No,” I whispered.

You’re here with me now. I’ll take care of you.

“Emily, I think Dylan cares for you. Very much so. I don’t think you should feel guilty about being here. He wants you here. He’s taken a sabbatical from the hospital so he can be around while you settle into your new life in London. These are not the actions of someone who resents the responsibility of caring for you.”

Hell! Another sacrifice he’d made. I had no idea he’d given up his job too, but now that I thought about it, it explained why he was always here.

“You mentioned Dylan thought you were delusional.”

“Yes.”

“And you said you thought you saw something.”

“I was mistaken.”

“Really?” She arched a brow.

I nodded. “It was just a manifestation of my grief.”

She gave me a skeptical look. “Okay,” she murmured.

I was telling her what she wanted to hear and she knew it, but she let it go.

“Emily, there is no clinical treatment for grief. It has to run its course. Give yourself permission to feel horribly miserable or however else you feel. Trust the grief. As painful as this process is, grief is your friend and will eventually guide you back to yourself.”

She paused, watching me intently once more.

“I think that’s it for now. But I’m going to recommend to Dylan that you come meet our bereavement counselor. He’s very good. I don’t think you’re suicidal per se, or delusional, and I’ll tell Dylan as much.”

Relief flooded through me, easing the knot in my throat. She was going, and she didn’t think I was crazy. This was good.

“Thank you,” I muttered as I stood, wanting out.

She got to her feet. “Good luck, Emily.” She gave me a sympathetic smile, and I managed a brief one for her.

Opening the door to the hallway, I stepped out as Dylan emerged from his study. He eyed me warily, no doubt trying to assess my mood. I rewarded him with a tentative smile, and he let out a deep breath in relief. Darting up the stairs, I paused on the landing to listen to his conversation with Dr. Mills as they stood in the hallway.

“She has suicidal ideation,” Claire said. “I don’t think she’s suicidal, but you’ll need to keep a watchful eye. Make sure you lock away the tablets. I could prescribe something to lift her serotonin levels as a short-term solution. It would take the edge off the pain, which is what she finds unbearable. But I’m reluctant. I am concerned about PTSD. It’s a bit early for a diagnosis given the accident was so recent, so I’ll ask Luke to investigate. But all things considered, I think she’s coping well. She feels guilty that she’s disrupting your life.”