Page 11 of Shattered Fate

She tells me that every time I leave the house without her, but I don’t know how to be any more careful than I am. Thereare some things I can’t control, and I know that better than most anyone. “I’ll try.”

I trot downstairs and head toward the kitchen. I shouldn’t take my pills without food, and Lucille always has breakfast ready. Nerves twist my stomach constantly, and the medication doesn’t help. I push through the doors but Stella and Zane are already there and I back quickly away. I peer at them through the crack. She’s sitting on a stool at the breakfast bar in front of her laptop, her hands resting lightly on the keyboard, and he’s standing behind her, his arms wrapped around her.

The eight months Stella stayed with her parents in Florida were hard on Zane, though he tried not to show it. He didn’t know if she would come back. I always knew. I know Stella loves him more than anything. She let Ash steal five years of her life to protect my brother. I’m grateful and thank God every day Ash didn’t sell her like he did me.

I rest my head against the edge of the door and watch them. I envy how sure they are, how they know they love each other with everything they have. My brother’s made a lot of mistakes, and he feels guilty whenever he looks at me. It’s not all his fault. He’s not responsible for Ash’s evil. Ash found pleasure in hurting me, and he fooled everyone around him, not only Zane.

His shoulders start to shake, and Stella turns in his arms and holds him tightly to her. He hides his face against her neck and his sobs carry to me across the kitchen.

I quietly close the door and retreat down the hallway. I don’t want to ruin their private moment and I’m not hungry anyway.

I snag a jacket in the foyer’s closet and wait for Douglas. Because of the fiasco the other day, I haven’t asked for another afternoon to myself. It’s obvious that even after a year free from Quiet Meadows, I’m still not ready to be on my own for any length of time. A humiliating realization. I’m not surewhat would have happened if Gage hadn’t rescued me on the sidewalk.

On our drives into the city, Douglas and I listen to audiobooks. There’s something calming about drifting through the country, the farmland, green and lush. Well, now that it’s close to winter, the crops have been harvested, but the emptiness is beautiful in its own way.

My blood hums with excitement as we near the city.

I can understand the appeal of both. I love the city’s energy, but King’s Crossing is confusing and full of people and bad memories (the ones I can remember), and no matter how eager I am to let the city consume me, it leaves me depleted and exhausted. When I return to the country, I gather my strength in the woods, the quiet, and the dogs’ company.

Then I do it all over again.

Today we listen to the end of a thriller. I’m pleased that throughout the story I was able to piece together the clues, and I knew who killed the little girl before the detective reveals the murderer.

Douglas shares my joy and admits the plot stymied him. It probably didn’t, but I’m proud of myself and in a positive mood when he lets me off at my therapist’s building. He watches me step into the lobby and only then does he drive away.

The receptionist greets me and says Jerricka is ready for me.

I step into her office, and Dr. Jerricka Solis smiles warmly as she always does. “Good morning, Zarah.”

I don’t have as casual a relationship with her as I do with Ingrid, but I like Jerricka, too. Zane said he vetted her more harshly than he normally would, considering the circumstances, but her background check came out clean and her professional accomplishments were impressive. I agreed to meet her, and I liked her straightforward attitude. That was one thing Zane was adamant about—he wanted me to choose the woman I wouldspend time with. He said it was imperative I was comfortable around her, and I am.

He tries hard to give me as much control as possible, and while it’s scary, it’s also thrilling to be in charge of my own life in small ways. It’s difficult for him to allow me that, but Stella reminds him that breathing down my neck isn’t going to make up for the years he let Ash lock me away. Sometimes, if Jerricka thinks it’s necessary, Zane attends my sessions. He should have his own therapist, but he cries on Stella instead.

It’s not healthy, but trusting someone...it’s a leap of faith some can’t handle.

I have no choice.

“Good morning.”

“You’re looking happy today,” Jerricka says, briefly touching my shoulder. She moves away and sits in her usual position on a sofa positioned under a huge window. “How are you?”

Her office is located in a sterile skyscraper and suite of offices she shares with other therapists, and we’re high enough to look over the city. During difficult conversations, sometimes I’ll stare out the window instead of making eye contact with her. She doesn’t like that, but she’s never stopped me from doing it.

I slip off my jacket and hang it on the coat tree near the door. I like her office. She decorated it in black and grey, and bright accents of peacock blue pop against the dark, which happens to be my favorite color. At least, it is now. I decorated my old room at the penthouse in black and pink, and I don’t know if the drugs altered me or if my taste naturally evolved. It’s just another question I’ll never have an answer to.

I sit on the couch near her and explain listening to the audiobook and how I puzzled out the whodunit at the end.

She nods but doesn’t write anything down. “That’s wonderful, Zarah. What else?” she asks, leaning into the cushion and crossing her legs.

“I met Max’s brother a couple of days ago,” I say, tucking my hands between my knees. We talk a lot about Max. How much I miss him, where I think I would be if he were still alive. Emotionally speaking.

“Oh? Is this the same man who told you he didn’t want you to attend Max’s funeral?”

I nod, and tears fill my eyes. “He let us go to the memorial service.”

Jerricka scratches something on her tablet. This is a story she’s heard before and we’ve spoken at length about how going to the memorial service was probably more meaningful, and thinking back, it was. The memorial service at the funeral parlor was small, and I was able to stand over his open coffin and cry, my tears dripping onto the suit someone had chosen for him to be buried in. I wasn’t rushed, and no one tried to talk to me. I stood with Max until the funeral director wanted to close for the evening.

Gage didn’t pressure me, and Max’s mother didn’t approach me. His father wasn’t there, called away on urgent business, and I was relieved I didn’t have to speak to her or meet him. Zane sat in the corner and drank coffee, wrestling with his own guilt and loss.

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