“Focus on finding a therapist, Hallie. You’ll need one.”
He twisted his head back, watching as cars swished by. I lowered my gaze back to my phone, my eyes landing on a fifty-something woman in a funky emerald blazer and a welcoming smile. She had the Rachel haircut—totally nineties—her hair as flame-red as mine.
Ilona Queen, PsyD
Licensed Clinical Psychologist
Alcohol addiction, substance abuse, eating disorder, trauma, PTSD, and relationship issues.
I clicked on theBook a Consultationbutton and held my breath.
Maybe this was the beginning of the end.
And the end of thinking I couldn’t rewrite my beginning.
Then.
As it turned out, we didn’t even have to kill Mr. Moruzzi.
The work of saints was often done through others. In our case—Mrs. Moruzzi.
Apparently, Mr. Moruzzi was sitting on quite a hefty sum of life insurance. Don’t ask me why that dumb fuck thought it would be a good idea to have a good insurance policy when everyone in his life wanted to see him dead.
On the news, we heard it was an accident. A terrible human error. The loving couple simply went hunting together, as they often did (according to the reporters, not to reality, which was more like Mrs. Moruzzi couldn’t fucking stand her husband or the filthy orphans he brought home to work for him).
One shot to the head. It actually pierced all the way through and hit the deer, too. The deer survived. Mr. Moruzzi—not so much.
Mrs. Moruzzi did everything right. She called the cops immediately. Told them her version of things. The Moruzzis were a well-off couple from the nice part of Chicago, who’d adopted three sons, all of whom were in college. No one would ever suspect homicide.
Mrs. Moruzzi was off the hook.
And so was I, or at least I’d thought.
Because a few years later, I did take a life.
The most precious life there was.
A life never meant to be taken.
“I think I found a really good therapist.”
Hallie sat in front of me on the plane. She angled her phone better, showing me a picture of a woman who looked like an older version of herself. “I still don’t know how I’ll afford her, seeing as I’m putting scissors to my parents’ credit card as soon as I get back to Los Angeles, but I’m thinking Keller might let me work at Main Squeeze.”
Staring into her blue eyes, all I could think about was how much I didn’t want her in Los Angeles. How much more affordable it would be for her to move elsewhere and start over. And, naturally, how it would make my life as her bodyguard.
“How will you make rent?”
Her face fell. She hadn’t thought of that. “I guess…I won’t? I’ll have to find something smaller. A studio, maybe. Would you mind very much moving into a studio apartment?”
I wouldn’t mind sharing a tuna can with this woman, but that wasn’t the issue.
“Los Angeles is expensive.” I tried another angle. “And unsafe.”
“Okay, Sherlock.” She quirked an eyebrow, sitting back as the plane took off. “What’s your point? You know I’m not moving to Texas.”
“Texas and California aren’t the only states in the federation.”
“You think I should move somewhere I don’t know?”