“We have water, but without electricity, we don’t have hot water. Do you like cold showers?” she called back, pulling out the duster, lemon furniture polish, and bathroom cleaner she’d bought earlier. She set them in a plastic tub, adding paper towels and a few sponges.

When she returned to the living area, Chase sat on the rug in front of the fire, staring into the flames. Her too-pretty face looked so tragic that Olivia’s heart caught.

Which was a rare occurrence, because Olivia always kept her distance with clients. Her observations of their moods were clinical in nature. But sometimes the way the light caught Chase’s face—the expressions, even the way she smiled—delivered a throat punch of emotion. She looked like Marley. That’s what Conrad had seen. That’s what Olivia saw each day.

Olivia set the tub of cleaning products on the dining room table and walked toward the hearth. Sinking down on the brick near Chase, she said, “You ready to talk about this afternoon?”

“No.”

Olivia didn’t say anything. She waited.

Chase kept her gaze on the fire. “I mean, I’m fine. I could have gotten the groceries. You saw that I had gotten everything you told me to.”

Olivia nodded her head. “You got everything on the list. And pizza rolls. But I wasn’t talking about the actual groceries.”

Chase pressed her lips together hard before sucking in a breath. “I know.”

“So tell me what you felt.”

“I don’t want to talk about it right now.”

“Okay. Can I tell you what I think you felt?” Olivia waited because she wanted to ensure that Chase was open to hearing truths.

The actress gave a quick lift of her shoulder. “Yeah. Sure. Tell me. I’ve been dying to know what I felt.”

Olivia chuckled.

Chase glanced at her flatly and refocused her attention back toward the flames now licking at the logs.

The warmth had grown in intensity, almost too hot against Olivia’s back. “You felt shame. You felt judged. You felt less than.”

“I didn’t feel less than. Around those people? Did you see them?” Chase tossed her head, another defense mechanism clicking into place. Her anger and judgment of the people who hurt her was a deflection from her own pain.

“Even people who mean very little to us have the power to hurt us. The people who mean very much to us have even more power to wound. But this isn’t qualitative. Hurt is hurt. Shame is shame.”

“That man didn’t hurt me. He’s a dumbass. A nasty person who likes to belittle others. I shouldn’t have run from them. I should have stayed and fought, ignoring them, conquering my list.” Chase twisted her fingers against her shins, her expression darkening even as the light flickered over her face.

“But you didn’t stay, and that’s okay. You’re not perfect.”