“That’s it? You’re giving up?”

Olivia paused and turned toward where Chase stood beside her unmade bed. “I didn’t give up. Conrad believes everyone can get better, everyone can turn their lives into something good. He’s such a romantic that way.”

That wasn’t even an answer. “What kind of therapist are you?”

“The kind who has learned not to waste her time with people who don’t want to change.” She turned and opened the door.

“Wait,” Chase said, wondering why she wanted this woman to give her more time. Something in the therapist’s eyes, the way she so easily accepted Chase’s answer, the way she didn’t seem to give a damn one way or another. Her easy acceptance bothered Chase. Conrad had hired this woman to do a job, and she walked after the first bump in the road? Chase had never met a therapist who accepted the first thing a person said. Therapists knew people needed, uh, therapy. Their job was to convince them to stop doing destructive things, to get on board, to stop snorting coke and sleeping with strangers. That kind of stuff.

Olivia didn’t turn around, but she paused, hand on the doorknob. “Yes?”

“That’s it?”

“What’s it?” she asked, turning toward Chase, her expression steady, her eyes . . . something. Disappointed?

Why would Chase give two figs about disappointing a stranger, someone hired to save her from herself? Lord. But oddly enough, the way the woman had surrendered had . . . intrigued her? It was probably some trick. That’s how sneaky these people were. But still, maybe wherever this woman wanted to take her would be better than these four walls and doing group therapy with the guy that scratched his privates incessantly and the pathetic sixteen-year-old who sobbed before she could say two words. Chase did feel a little sorry for the girl, but the kid needed to dry up and deal at some point. “Where would we be going, um, if I were to do this therapy thing with you?”

“Your mother has approved us staying in the house you own in Malibu. You’ll spend another week or so there, completing your sobriety therapy.”

The waves, the sand, and the soft bed sounded amazing. Plus, she wouldn’t have to listen to the losers in her group therapy. Okay, maybe she was being harsh. She knew these people had problems and needed help.

The way you do, dumbass. You’re a loser, too.

“And then?” Chase asked.

“Then we start the process of discovering who you really are, Chase. You need to unlearn your current coping strategies and learn effective methods that work for productive, healthy adults.” Olivia looked like she believed what she said. Like she would be giving Chase a gift, unwrapping secret wisdom that only she was privy to.

Whatever. Bunch of mumbo jumbo crap. How many therapists, life coaches, agents, directors, and friends had promised her something she knew she wasn’t going to get? She didn’t have enough fingers and toes to count those on.