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“Of course.” He shoved the book back into the bag, his relief at my practical question almost palpable.

I turned my attention to the building again. Nothing about it looked inviting, but if I refused to set foot inside, Tyler could use that as further evidence that I had a problem. Worse, a small, deeply unwelcome part of me had begun to wonder whether he might be right.

“I guess…” I said slowly, hardly able to believe I was about to agree to this, “I could at least check the place out.” The tension in Tyler’s shoulders eased. “It probably looks better inside.”

Chapter Two

Rowan

It didn’t look any better inside. The place had that unmistakable clinical smell—a sterile blend of disinfectant and antiseptic smothered beneath an expensive air freshener that somehow made the whole thing worse. In contrast, the admission process felt more like checking into a hotel than entering a medical facility. There was even a receptionist smiling pleasantly behind an imposing desk.

I let Tyler take charge, zoning out while he dealt with the paperwork, and shaking my head whenever anyone asked if I had questions. Just because I’d agreed to spend a few days here didn’t mean I was going to look happy about it. I was an artist who liked to party, not an actor. I put up more of a protest when they took my phone, but it didn’t make any difference. The admissions nurse explained in the sort of gently patronizing tone that made me want to argue with every word she said that “a lack of distractions was part of the healing process.”

A medical assessment involving a lot of poking and prodding came next. The nurse recorded my blood pressure, pulse, and temperature before moving on to questions about my medical history, medications, and allergies. I had no problem answering those, but became decidedly pricklier when the subject turned to my supposed substance abuse.

“I like to have fun,” I said defensively.

The nurse, Rhonda Fleming, according to her name badge, nodded with infuriating understanding. “That’s a common story for how it starts.”

“How what starts?” I frowned. “I’m not an addict, if that’s what you’re trying to say.”

She made a note on the chart, her expression so carefully neutral that it wound me up even more. “What are you writing?” I demanded. “You’d better not be saying I’m in denial.”

When she didn’t answer, I lunged for the chart, determined to find out for myself. Tyler caught my hand before I could reach it and pulled it down onto his thigh, anchoring it there with both of his.

“He’s tired,” he said. “He’s not usually like this. He didn’t get home until the early hours of the morning, and he hasn’t slept properly in weeks.”

I glared at him. “Don’t make excuses for me.”

“I’m not. I’m just explaining that things have been difficult for you and you might be a little short-tempered after all the fun you had last night.”

The way he said “fun” suggested he would have used air quotes if his hands had been free.

“You were invited,” I mumbled.

Tyler sighed. “I had better things to do with my time than let random men rub up against me all night.”

“I did not let random men rub up against me, and if someone told you otherwise, they’re lying.” Tyler shrugged, and my irritation sharpened into suspicion. “Did someone tell you that?”

I remembered too late that we weren’t alone—and that there were better places to have a domestic than in front of Rhonda, who was watching us the way she might watch a particularly gripping tennis match while continuing to scribble her damn notes. I sat back in my chair, suddenly weary beyond belief.

“I think,” Rhonda said after a pause, “that the rest of the questions can probably wait until tomorrow.”

“I think that might be best,” Tyler agreed.

I said nothing.

Rhonda made a call, and a man dressed as a nurse but apparently serving as a porter arrived to show me to my room. He led us along a corridor where several of the doors stood open. Through them, I caught glimpses of people watching TV, reading, or sitting together in quiet conversation. It might have seemed almost normal, if not for the agitated voice carrying from somewhere farther along the corridor.

“He’s here every night,” a woman said, panic making her voice shrill. “Stood in that corner. Just watching. He won’t leave me alone. Every. Single. Night. I need to change rooms. I can’t stay in this room with that thing.”

A man answered, his tone carefully modulated to sound reassuring. “You already changed rooms, Laura, remember?”

“It followed me. I told you it won’t leave me alone. It’s going to kill me and none of you give a damn.”

“We give a damn,” the man said. “Of course we do. Your welfare is our primary concern. We can’t do another room change, but what we can do is alter your medication. Obviously, these hallucinations are a side effect of the one you’re currently taking. That combined with the fact that you’re in withdrawal—”

We reached the source of the commotion in time to see Laura round on him.