So instead she left the coffee without wiping up the spill and started back to her room.

“Hey,” the woman called at her retreating back, “come back and clean this up.”

“That’s what you’re paid for.”

“You little . . .”

Chase smiled as she headed to the private room they’d shoved her into almost three weeks ago. And then left her to detox (which sucked) and gave her ugly sweats to wear. When she complained, they shook their heads and said, “You know the drill.”

Yeah, she did.

And she hated everyone at Cedar Point, but even more than the well-intentioned counselors, she hated her mother.

Lorna had actually called her PO and reported her for being in violation of her parole. What kind of mother called the police on her own kid?

Officer Tonya Gilbert had taken Chase’s “tattletale” ankle bracelet off, muttering about stupid batteries, and put her in cuffs. She’d spent a whole twenty-one hours in a jail cell after she was processed. Thankfully, it had been a holding cell, and she’d gone before the judge the next day. Her attorney had gotten her community service. Again. And court-ordered rehab. Again. So yeah, she knew the drill.

She entered her room and looked at the breakfast she’d ordered. Totally sucked. Most of the patients went to the café for breakfast, but Chase wanted to spend as little time as possible with the other residents. Last time she’d gotten a hanger-on who had somehow gotten her phone number from a staff member. The woman had texted Chase emojis and GIFs for the remainder of the rehab period, which at first had been kind of fun, but then the lunatic didn’t stop. Chase had to get a new number and a restraining order after the woman had turned up at her house one day.

So Chase kept her distance, sharing minimally during group therapy and avoiding everyone’s curious glances. People loved to watch someone like her fall down. They didn’t extend a hand. Instead they whipped out their phones and filmed the flailing. So she wasn’t going to give anyone the chance to be a lookie-loo. Or a stalker.

Chase took the tray and sat it outside her door. The room was okay. More hotel room than hospital room. That was because Cedar Point was exclusive, its clientele discerning, and its staff discreet. Or at least that was what the brochures said. She’d picked up some in the lobby when she’d gone outside for a pretend smoke because she didn’t smoke cigarettes. Then she’d brought a stack back to circle the buzzwords and write how the claims were bullshit. How did the picture of her in group therapy, sans makeup, end up in the Hollywood Spotlight magazine last time, huh? The patients couldn’t use their phones anywhere but their rooms, so they couldn’t snap her picture, could they? Discreet staff, her ass.

She planned to put the brochures back with the truthful information in place so people would know that Cedar Point’s claims were total crap.