Devina was indeed frazzled, and as she sat down, she put her Prada bag to the side. Taking a deep breath, she patted the corporeal illusion of brunette hair that the human woman saw, and pushed at the lizard-print leather pants that actually existed.

“Work has been hell,” she said, glancing down to double-check that her bag was zipped up. There were bloodstains on the sweatshirt inside, and the last thing she needed was to have to explain them. “Absolute hell.”

“I was glad you called for the extra night session. After last week, I’ve been thinking about you and what happened. How are you doing?”

Devina downshifted out of the chaos she’d just come from and focused on herself. Which was not a happy thing. Instantly, tears sprang to her eyes. “I’m . . .”

Not okay.

She forced herself to say something. “The movers got everything into my new place, and most of it is still in boxes. I spent the afternoon trying to unpack, but there’s so much, and I have to make sure it’s ordered correctly. I need to check that my—”

“Devina, stop talking about the things.” The therapist made a little note in her black book. “We can get to planning toward the end of the session. I want to know how you are. Talk to me about how you feel.”

Devina looked across the needlepoint rug and wondered, not for the first time, what the woman would think if she knew she was treating a demon. Ever since Devina had been in Caldwell, she’d been coming to see the psychologist—so it was over a year now. She kept her true identity hidden under her favorite skin of a sexy, chic, brunette female, but the underneath . . . especially after her first loss to Jim Heron . . . was a fucking mess.

And this human was actually helping her.

Devina snapped a tissue out of the box on the table beside her. “I just . . . I hate moving. I feel totally out of control. And lost. And . . . scared.”

“I know you do.” Warmth positively wafted out of the woman’s pores. “Changing homes is the hardest thing for someone like you to do. I’m very proud of you.”

“I had no time. No time to do it right.” More tears. Which she hated. But, God, she’d had to rip her collections out of their rightful places in a matter of hours, scrambling, throwing things into boxes. “I still haven’t been able to sort through everything and make sure nothing was broken or lost.”

Oh, God . . . lost.

Panic fanned into her chest and made the heart she had co-opted beat triple-time.

“Devina, look at me.”

She had to force her eyes to focus through the panic attack. “I’m sorry,” she choked out.