“I sure wasn’t out to hurt anyone, believe me, Doctor. I know I should’ve thought more and felt less, but Dylan...” She drew up her legs again. Negligible body fat allowed her to fold like paper. With that lack of insulation, two nights up in the hills must’ve chilled her. Even if she was lying about her fear, the experience hadn’t been pleasant: The final police report had cited fresh human excrement under a nearby tree, leaves and candy wrappers used for toilet paper.

“Now,” she said, “everyone will think I’m a dumb blonde.”

“Some people say there’s no such thing as bad publicity.”

“They do?” she said. “You think so?”

“I think people can turn themselves around.”

She fixed her eyes on mine. “I was stupid and I’m so, so sorry.”

I said, “Whatever you guys intended, it ended up being a rough couple of nights.”

“What do you mean?”

“Being out there in the cold. No bathroom.”

“That was gross,” she said. “It was freezing and I felt like creepy-crawlies were all over me, just eating me up. Afterward my arms and legs and my neck hurt. Because I tied myself too tight.” She grimaced. “I wanted to be authentic. To show Dylan.”

“Show him what?”

“That I was a serious actor.”

“Were you out to please anyone else, Michaela?”

“What do you mean?”

“You had to figure the story would get exposure. Did you consider how other people would react?”

“Like who?”

“Let’s start with Nora.”

“I honestly felt she’d respect us. For having integrity. Instead she’s pissed.”

“What about your mother?”

She waved that off.

“You didn’t think about your mother?”

“I don’t talk to her. She’s not in my life.”

“Does she know about what happened?”

“She doesn’t read the papers but I guess if it’s in the Phoenix Sun and somebody shows it to her.”

“You haven’t called her?”

“She can’t do anything to help me.” She mumbled.

“Why’s that, Michaela?”

“She’s sick. Lung disease. My whole childhood she was sick with something. Even when I fell on my head it was a neighbor took me to the doctor.”

“Mom wasn’t there for you.”

She glanced to the side. “When she was stoned she’d hit me.”

“Mom was into drugs.”

“Mostly weed, sometimes she’d take pills for her moods. Mostly, she liked to smoke. Weed and tobacco and Courvoisier. Her lungs are seriously burned away. She breathes with a tank.”

“Tough childhood.”

She mumbled again.

I said, “I missed that.”

“My childhood. I don’t like talking about it but I’m being totally honest with you. No illusions, no emotional curtain, you know? It’s like a mantra. I kept telling myself, ‘honesty honesty honesty.’ Lauritz told me to keep that here, right in front.” A tapered finger touched a smooth, bronze brow.