Page 67 of Milo

"Talk?"

The drive from Monaco to Genoa is two and a half hours. That's a lot of talking. I should've taken the jet.

What is there even to say? Am I supposed to tell her that I regret it? That I wish I didn't shoot Andre? The man was two seconds away from ending Milo's life? Her brother's life.

And do I regret it? I don't know. It's another grey area. If Andre shot Milo, would he have shot me next? Would I also be dead?

I hate what-ifs. They're toxic. They're draining. They're a waste of time. They fuck with your head. They bring out your worst fears. They eat you alive.

And talking doesn't help either.

Nothing helps.

Julia twists her body toward me. She presses a button on the panel built into the middle console and a partition rises between us and the driver.

Oh, God.

Mistake after mistake.

"How are you feeling, cara?" Julia’s clinical gaze burrows into mine like she's trying to crack through the barrier of my brain.

"I'm fine.” I shift in my seat, fiddling the pages of the book in my lap. "Really, I am. I did what I had to do."

Julia reaches for my hand, applying a gentle squeeze. "You're not fine, cara. I can see it in your eyes. Talk to me. Please. It will help."

I pull my hand away, crossing my arms. "Are all psychologists this pushy?"

My snippy tone doesn't deter her, doesn't make her frown, doesn't affect her in any way. The deep concern gleaming in her eyes is palpable, but I don't care. I don't want to talk about it. Not to her. Not to anyone.

"With my patients, no I am not. But to my friends? Yes. Always."

I saved her brother. Her affection toward me is inauthentic. It's a result of my evil act.

"We've known each other for a few days, Julia.” I look away. "We're not friends."

This hurts her.

And me.

She's silent for a moment before musing, "Time does not determine admiration, Kiara." Her eyes flicker to the Jane Austen novel on my lap. "Sense and Sensibility?"

"An escape.” I tap my finger against the paperback book I borrowed from Julia's library a few nights back.

"Have you read it before?"

I tilt my head at her silly question. "Of course."

"Right, so—" A sly smile clips her lips. "Do you remember what Marianne said to Elinor when Willoughby bought her the horse?"

I purse my lips. Oh, she's good. "Yes, I remember."

She casts me a knowing smile. “What did she say?"

I roll my eyes. "That it's not time or opportunity that determine intimacy but disposition."

"And?"

I let out a deep grumble. "And that seven years wouldn't be enough time for some people to get to know each other, and for others, seven days is more than enough."

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