Her father had his head bent over the form—probably reading what he was signing. “You’re not going to school. The doctor said for you to stay home and rest, make sure there aren’t any delayed effects.” His hand scribbled across the bottom of the form.

“He also said I was fine.”

“End of discussion.”

Of course it was. Layne sighed.

Her father handed the forms back to the nurse and looked at Layne. “I rearranged my schedule. I’ll stay with you until Simon gets home.”

It should have made her feel better. It didn’t.

It made her feel like an obligation.

She didn’t even say good-bye to her mother—not out of any sense of spite or anger, but the woman had disappeared down some corridor to take her call, and there was no sign of her. Maybe she’d forgotten the whole reason they were at the hospital to begin with.

Layne just folded her legs into her father’s BMW and stared out the window.

She wondered if Gabriel was all right. He’d been in that fire, too. And he hadn’t had the luxury of medical attention.

He’d run when he’d seen fire trucks. That had to imply some sort of guilt.

But the look in his eyes after the fire—there’d been no guilt there. Only horror. Sadness. Regret, as he told her that some horses had been trapped.

The barn had been her sanctuary. She’d mourn its loss as much as she would the other horses. Gabriel had understood that. Respected it.

She knew he had.

My secret has to do with fire.

Layne wished she could call him. To demand answers.

But she was afraid to call him. She was afraid the truth would be more devastating than all these hypotheticals.

Her father disappeared into his study when they got home, making Layne wonder why he’d even bothered to stay with her. He’d tried to be supportive in the car, talking about how they’d find another place for her to ride, to move her horse to another facility, all concrete, easy things that should have been reassuring but weren’t at all, really.

She stripped out of her clothes in the bathroom, clenching her eyes shut as usual, hating the sight of her naked body. She couldn’t see, anyway; her eyes kept blurring with tears that she chased off. She kept her mind occupied by flinging her clothes into two piles by feel: keep or trash. The jacket was disgusting. Trash. The boots were expensive and could use a good cleaning. Keep. Turtleneck, keep. Socks, keep. Riding breeches, trash.

Then the memory of that moment in the grass hit her, full force.

Your scars aren’t all you are, Layne.

She gasped and pressed her hands to her eyes, letting her shoulders shake with emotion but refusing to let the tears fall.