Neil looked for a delicate way to say it. The best he managed was, "I'm not okay."

She put a finger to his chin and turned his face back toward her. "Neil, I work for the Foxes. None of you are okay. Chances are I've seen a lot worse than whatever it is you're trying to hide from me."

Neil's smile was humorless. "I hope not."

"Trust me," Abby said. "I'm not going to judge you. I'm here to help, remember? I'm your nurse now. That door is closed, and it comes with a lock. What happens in here stays in here."

"You won't tell Coach?"

"This isn't his business," Abby said, gesturing between them with her free hand. "I only report to him if I think it'll affect your performance on the court or if you're breaking the law and I need an intervention."

Neil stared at her, wondering if he could believe her and knowing he didn't have a choice. His skin was already crawling in anticipation of her reaction. "You can't ask me about them," he said at last. "I won't talk to you about it. Okay?"

"Okay," Abby agreed easily. "But know that when you want to, I'm here, and so is Betsy."

Neil wasn't going to tell that psychiatrist a thing, but he nodded. Abby dropped her hand, and Neil pulled his shirt over his head before he could lose his nerve.

Abby thought she was ready. Neil knew she wouldn't be, and he was right. Her mouth parted on a silent breath and her expression went blank. She wasn't fast enough to hide her flinch, and Neil saw her shoulders go rigid with tension. He stared at her face as she stared at him, watching her gaze sweep over the brutal marks of a hideous childhood.

It started at the base of his throat, a looping scar curving down over his collarbone. A pucker with jagged edges was a finger-width away, courtesy of a bullet that hit him right on the edge of his Kevlar vest. A shapeless patch of pale skin from his left shoulder to his navel marked where he'd jumped out of a moving car and torn himself raw on the asphalt. Faded scars crisscrossed here and there from his life on the run, either from stupid accidents, desperate escapes, or conflicts with local lowlifes. Along his abdomen were larger overlapping lines from confrontations with his father's people while on the run. His father wasn't called the Butcher for nothing; his weapon of choice was a cleaver. All of his men were well-versed in knife-fighting, and more than one of them had tried to stick Neil like a pig.

And there on his right shoulder was the perfect outline of half a hot iron. Neil didn't remember what he'd said or done to irritate his father so much. Likely it was after another one of the local police's visits. The police and feds had nothing concrete to pin on his father, but they came around as often as they could in hopes of finding something. Neil's job was to stay quiet and still until they left again. Neil guessed he'd twitched a little too much, because as soon as they were gone his father ripped the iron from his mother's hands and smacked Neil with it. Neil still remembered how his skin looked as it peeled off with the metal.