“I’m sorry, Dr. Shelby. I found a bunch of video files on Natalie’s computer. She recorded your sessions and took notes so she could leverage people. There’s a camera hidden at the top of the bookshelves in your office.”

I spot Deputy Shields in the crowd and call out to her.

“You should go to the mayor’s house now, check Natalie’s computer upstairs before they can delete the evidence.”

The mayor’s eyes blaze with indignant rage. “It was you. Sending me nasty texts that night. Trying to frame me. You little bitch.”

It all happens so fast—he growls and lunges toward me. Gabriel and Ben go to block him, but my grandmother, of all people, beats them to it.

“Bradley Bergen, so help me God, I will kill you where you stand. Back the hell away from my granddaughter!”

Maura pushes him aside, like a linebacker, grabbing my hand and pulling me out of the fray. “Come on, Celia, we’re leaving.” I hear Morgan sobbing.

We make it as far as the door before Sheriff Morrow blocks the way.

“Those were some tough accusations you were throwing over there, young lady,” he says, and I could punch his smug, patronizing face. Or Maura might do it for me.

“My granddaughter is very upset, Kyle. I need to get her home.” Maura narrows shrewd eyes at the sheriff and says with a sniff, “And you may want to lay off the booze. It appears you have a long night of questioning ahead of you.”

With that, she sweeps me out the door, leaving a sputtering sheriff behind us.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

The pounding is so loud I can hear it all the way up in my attic room. I jolt out of sleep, groggy enough to think at first I’ve imagined it. But after a minute, there it is again.

Bam, bam, bam.

I check the time on my phone. Nine-thirty a.m. Fuck.

And now I understand the silence in the house. No squalling grandmother yelling at the fucker who won’t stop knocking. Maura must be at the funeral. I’m alone.

Bam, bam, bam.

Whoever it is isn’t going away, so I throw on my hoodie over my pajamas and make my way down to the front door. I open it with more force than necessary, prepared to chew out whatever relentless asshole is on the step, but I choke on my curses at the sight of Ben. His dark-blond waves are still wet from the shower, and he’s wearing an olive-green slub-knit cardigan I want to sink my face into. But then I remember last night in a full-body nausea flush.

“What are you doing here?” I manage, realizing I’m braless, with bad breath and an unwashed face. I could just die.

“Such a friendly welcome.”

“I assumed you hate me now, like everyone else.” My eyes flick up the stairs, wishing I could disappear.