“Cate.” Noah glanced up as she hovered in his office doorway. “Come in. Have a seat.”

“I can’t stay long. My dad’s picking me up soon.”

“That’s fine.” He rose and circled around the desk, closed the door as she sat, and took the chair beside her. The desk put too much distance between them and created both a physical and psychological barrier. Not conducive to encouraging a girl to open up.

And getting girls to confide in him was essential.

“I was surprised to see you in the hall today. I thought you’d be recuperating in your room.”

“I didn’t want to be alone . . . you know?” She fidgeted in her seat.

“That’s understandable.”

She began to jiggle her foot. “I’ve been pretty wired all day.”

“Also understandable. A trauma like that takes a toll.”

“Yeah.” She toed aside the backpack she’d set on the floor . . . and a pack of cigarettes slipped out of one of the pockets. After shooting him a guilty look, she snatched it up. Shoved it back inside. “I know smoking’s not allowed, but it helps calm me down. And I really need that right now. You won’t tell anyone, will you?”

“No.” The poor girl was almost trembling with anxiety. A lot like Stephanie had been when she’d arrived—except her agitation had been caused by anger rather than nerves. Neither emotion, however, was healthy. “After all you’ve been through, I can see why you’re seeking relief.”

“I wish I had something stronger that would help more, though.”

“You mean like alcohol?”

“I don’t know.” She shrugged. “Whatever works. All day I’ve felt like I’m going to jump out of my skin, you know?”

“Yes, I do.” Some of the girls who came to Ivy Hill required counseling in the beginning. Boarding school was a huge adjustment for a fair number. But an empathetic ear wasn’t always enough. A few required a bit more help to chill out. To feel happy and content.

The kind he could provide once he got to know them—if they could be trusted to keep the secret.

It was too soon to know yet if Cate was a candidate for that sort of help.

“So you’re a counselor. What do you recommend?” Her eyes were wide. Beseeching.

She wanted him to help her. Believed he had the power to make her life better.

And he could.

In time.

But not yet.

“Let’s start by talking about what you’re feeling. Putting it into words often helps relieve anxiety.”

They chatted for a few minutes, and he followed the textbook script for such sessions. He listened, offered nods of encouragement, made a few suggestions.

As their conversation waned, she twisted her wrist and scanned her watch. “I have to go or I won’t be ready when my dad comes.”