I thought of the letters I’d written to Rafe while he was in prison, the ones Dad found after I disappeared. Those words, written with the intent that they never be read, had given him ammunition. He’d discovered how Rafe was my biggest weakness. It was a reminder that nothing was private. Anything and everything could be used against you. My fingers brushed the purse beside me, where the letters were now safely tucked inside.

I pointed at the notepad. “I don’t want you writing down the stuff I say. Can’t we just talk?”

“Sure.” She set the pad and pen aside. “You don’t have to tell me anything you’re not comfortable disclosing. And you don’t have to give names either.”

I let out a breath and stood. Strolling to the window, left partially open to allow a warm breeze in, I tried to ignore the tingles going down my spine, but her scrutiny blasted my back like a physical blow. Only once I stopped at the window, mindlessly gazing at the tree-lined street below, did I speak.

“He did things to me, bad, shameful things, and part of me liked it.” I folded my arms around myself, cold despite the nice weather. “He made me do things that ruined another man’s life.” I shook my head as tears pooled in my eyes. “No, that’s not entirely true. He made me, but I could have stopped it. I was too weak.”

“You don’t strike me as being weak.”

“I was a coward. Label it however you want. When I think about saying the words out loud, my throat tightens”—I swallowed hard—“and I can’t say shit. My silence enabled him for years.”

“Speaking out and standing up for yourself is hard. It’s brave. Is he still hurting you, Alex?”

“No.” The single word came out strangled. I hadn’t seen or heard from Zach since the night he carved his name into my stomach. Dad assured me he was far away receiving treatment for his alcoholism. Just because he wasn’t physically hurting me any longer didn’t mean my wounds had stopped bleeding. They still existed, as tangible as the wind—felt but not seen.

“I think you’re a survivor,” she said. “Your self-worth has taken a hit, but I believe you have what it takes to heal. The first step is asking for help, and you’ve done that. You’re here.”

I turned around, her words causing a spark of empowerment inside me. “You think so?”

“Most definitely.” She shifted, crossing her legs on the other side. “You have a right to feel safe in your own skin. If the abuse starts again—”