“Who are you? A counselor?” Colleen squeezed her hands into little fists, feeling her fingernails dig into the soft places of her palms. “See? This is why I don’t talk about it. Now I’m being mean to you. I can’t talk about this.”

Beckett nodded. “I understand.” He smiled, but his expression was sad, as if she’d let him down. God, she was tired of letting people down.

“No, honestly you don’t understand. I think I have to go now, Beckett. I know my way home.”

She set her feet to leave but then turned to see him still standing there, still looking at her with gentle kindness. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you don’t hate me. You should be mad as hell. I’m being . . . rude.”

“I told you. I’ve been there. I get it.”

“Been where?” Colleen took a few steps toward him.

“In the place where you don’t want to accept what you must and so you try every damn thing in the world not to feel it or know it. I drank. Sounds like you run.”

“That’s not what’s happening here.”

He shrugged. “Then maybe I’m wrong.”

“You are so frustrating!” Colleen’s voice echoed across the plaza and she lowered it. “What happened that you had to accept?”

“I was driving and there was an accident, and the girl in the passenger seat, a friend, didn’t . . . make it.”

His words fell on her like a bag of wet sand between her shoulder blades, holding her immobile. “Oh, God, Beckett. I am so sorry . . .” And she forgot everything about Walter and Hallie. She touched the thin scar by his ear. “This scar, right? Tell me what happened. I mean, you don’t have to talk about it. Here I am going on and on about a love affair and there you are with life and death and I’m . . .”