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  “This is real?” I ask.

  She squeezes my hand. “I swear, it’s real, Evangeline. I think it can help you. You just need to commit to it. Surrender to the plan and see it through. I can’t make promises because the outcome all depends on you, not me. Not the watcher, but you. So you have to decide… can you do this?”

  Lucinda, to her credit, waits as I think it all through.

  I picture the performance. The applause. Playing music again. “I’ll need a violin,” I whisper. “To get ready.”

  “Yes.” Lucinda laughs. “You will. And you do realize that you were never going to go through with this show, right?”

  “What?” I gasp. “Yes, of course I was. Why would I plan a performance and not follow through?”

  “Because you were looking for a way out, Evangeline. And the performance was your excuse. How do you think you’ll play the violin in front of a sold-out crowd in two and a half weeks if you haven’t picked one up in over ten years?”

  I think about that for a little bit. Is she right? Was this all an act of self-sabotage? Was getting better just a trigger to get worse? “I’m a prodigy,” I say. “I never learned the violin. I just… always knew it.”

  “You were a child prodigy, Evangeline. Now you’re just another adult who needs to work hard at things. You decided thirteen years ago to withdraw from society. You neglected your imagination and stopped expressing yourself. You found solace in the predictable and boring. In hiding away and pretending that attention was painful.”

  “It is!” I insist. “You have no idea what you’re talking about!”

  “Evangeline, I’m a fucking doctor, OK? I have a Ph.D. I’m board-certified in psychoanalysis.”

  “You’re a fucking sex therapist!”

  “No,” she says, her calm demeanor wavering slightly. “I use sex as part of my therapy. There’s a big difference. I don’t treat people with sex problems. I guide patients and sex is one tool I use to help them recover. In your case, we will not be using sex as therapy. I told you that a long time ago. We will use a completely anonymous watcher with cameras. That’s it. So forget about the sex.”

  We sit there quietly for a little bit. I put my sunglasses back on and withdraw my hand from hers. “Friday?” I ask.

  “Yes.”

  “You had this planned?”

  “Yes. It’s all been set up for you.”

  “You knew I was failing?”

  She smiles, takes both my hands in her to give them a squeeze, and says, “I saw it coming from the first time I met you. Moving past hurtful things that trigger a response as debilitating as yours isn’t easy, Evangeline. Yes, I always knew you’d fail. But I also knew you had what it takes to get better. I’m treating you because I believe in you. You’re not my typical case. You know that.”

  “I know,” I say softly. “You’ve done a lot for me. And I appreciate it.”

  She stands up and looks down at me. I don’t want to look her in the face, but I force myself. Because she’s right. I’m the only one who can cure me now. I am my own last resort.

  I swallow down the self-loathing all this self-assessment brings up, raise my chin, and square my shoulders. “OK. Let’s do it.”

  Chapter Four - Ixion

  I sit up straight and stare at the largest of the monitors I’ve got set up in the basement control room. Someone is at the front gate. A woman.

  I push away from the panel of screens, jog to the door and yank it open, then sprint across the obscenely large basement to the stairs. I take them three at a time, see my shoes over near the kitchen, slide across the hardwood floors in my socks, grabbing them by the shoelaces as I slip past, and then duck around the corner of one wall, just as the front door opens and the alarm sings in protest.

  The woman—tall, long, dark hair, wearing a long winter coat, and carrying a brown paper grocery bag—pushes all the right numbers of the alarm keypad to make it stop screaming, and walks towards the kitchen.

  This is not Evangeline Rolaine. I know that for sure. Because this woman is pregnant. Very pregnant. “Excuse me,” I say, coming out from behind the wall. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

  She doesn’t jump at my voice or anything stupid like that. Just smiles and sets her bag down on the dark soapstone countertop. “You must be Ixion,” she says.

  “It’s just Ix,” I say, annoyed. “And you are?”

  “Oh.” She laughs. “Sorry.” She extends her hand for a handshake. I take it as she says, “You don’t remember me, do you? I remember you though. Who could forget that name, right?” She’s still smiling. And I still have no fucking clue who she is. “Jordan reminded me, so I cheated, I guess. But our parents were friends. Marcella Walcott. Ring any bells?”

  I squint my eyes at her. I have no clue.

  “Well, it’s Baldwin now.” She wiggles the fingers on her left hand to flash her diamonds at me.

  “Baldwin?” I say.

  “Smith. You know him, right?”

  “Not really,” I say. “But your name…” I think back.

  “My father is the senator?” she adds, trying to be helpful.

  I point at her. “Oh, fuck yeah. I know you.”

  She makes a gesture with her hands that says, Of course you do. “Lucinda had an emergency, so she asked me to bring groceries over before her patient checks in tomorrow. So.” She turns back to her grocery bag. “That’s what I’m doing.”

  “Got it,” I say.

  “So you and Jordan have been friends all this time?” She looks over her shoulder as she loads vegetables into the fridge.

  “Sorta,” I say, fascinated by her. And a little weirded out that two childhood friends have reappeared in my life lately. “We go way back, as I’m sure you’re aware. But we don’t talk much now.”

  “Ah,” she says, closing the fridge with her hip and walking over to the subzero freezer on the opposite wall. “So he conned you into doing this job, huh?” She laughs a little. Like she knows him pretty well and this is just… one of those cute things we can count on Jordan doing.

  “Are you and Jordan friends?” I ask.

  “Sorta,” she says. And then she winks at me. “He went to the Club a lot when I first met the guys.”

  Mmmmm-hmmm. Interesting. The Club denotes a place called Turning Point. Been around for decades. Jordan wanted to be part of that place in the worst way back in college. But they have an age requirement, and then he went to UCLA for law school, and I was there, and we did… with… yeah. Fuckin’ club. Sex is what they do there. “So that place is still rollin’, huh?”

  “No,” she says. “Bric sold it about a year ago and I understand that someone is turning it into a hotel.”

  “Ah.” I point to her belly. “And that’s Baldwin’s baby?”

  “Of course,” she says.

  “Uh-huh,” I say. I have a lot of details I could fill in just based on what she’s told me already. None of them come from her and all of them come from that statement about meeting Jordan at Turning Point Club.

  I wonder if she fucked him?

  “Well,” Marcella says, folding up her paper bag and stuffing it in the universal place people stuff folded paper bags—that thin slot of empty space between the fridge and the wall—“that’s it for me. My job is done. Good luck with yours. Oh, and if you find yourself downtown, I own a tea shop next to where the Club used to be. Stop by and we’ll be friends again.” She smiles broadly. “Or something.”

  I just… kinda laugh at that and watch her walk out.

  Weird.

  I lock the house back up, re-arm the alarm, and go back downstairs to a buzzing phone on the desk top. “Yeah,” I say. Its caller ID says it’s Jordan.

  “I told you not to be seen,” he says.

  “Well, you didn’t tell me that some strange chick was gonna show up out of the blue.”

  “It’s none of your business what happens outside your little control room, Ix. I thought I made that clear.”

/>   “Look, I just didn’t know she was coming. A little heads up next time, right?”

  “Stay away from this Evangeline girl, Ixion.”

  “Why the fuck wouldn’t I?”

  “I know you, remember. You fuck girls just to see if you can.”

  I actually fuckin’ guffaw. “You are no one to judge me.”

  “Do not fuck with this girl, Ixion. Understand me?”

  “Dude, Evangeline Rolaine is the definition of boring. Don’t worry.”

  “Good,” he says. “She’s so not your type.”

  “No shit. She’s kinda…” Well, I was gonna just say ugly as kind of a default answer, but I’ve got her picture up on the wall where I always keep a picture of my targets. And she’s not ugly. So I can’t even lie about it.

  “She’s kinda what?” Jordan asks.

  “Uptight,” I say. “You know I hate girls like that. Fuckin’ high-society bitches with their fancy debutante dresses and fake giggling.”

  “Yeah, from the information I’ve gathered on you up in Wyoming, you like the mean ones. The wasted ones. The easy ones.”

  I shrug. “So? Someone’s gotta like ‘em. Might as well be me.”

  “Stay in the control room. If you see a problem, call me immediately. Do not go upstairs. Hell, do not leave that room under any circumstances unless she leaves the house and you need to follow her. And if that happens, you call me then too, got it?”

  “Got it,” I say. “You’re just like her. Uptight and shit. You got a thing for this girl, Wells?”

  “No.” He laughs. “I just provide a service. Nothing more.”

  “Uh-huh. Sure. Well, you don’t have to worry about me. I’m not the least bit interested in Evangeline Rolaine. And I can’t wait for this shit to be over so I can be on my way. Gonna hit up Oregon next.”

  “Yeah? Why there? Why not stay here?”

  “Why should I stay here?”

  “You’ve got roots here,” he says.

  “Not anymore,” I say back.

  “That’s harsh,” he says.

  “I’m just a realist, that’s all.”

  “Sure,” he says. “Whatever. I’ll call tomorrow afternoon to check in. Stay in that fucking room.”

  I hang up on him. He’s told me that like five times already. He can fuck off. I have no intention of interacting with the boring ex-child prodigy. But if I did intend to, I would.

  Because Jordan Wells does not get to make rules for me.

  Not after he broke them all and ruined my life.

  In fact… this girl might be good for something after all. I don’t need the money, but I could use another game.

  How about it, Miss Rolaine?

  Would you like to play a game?

  Chapter Five - Jordan

  I tap Chella’s contact on my phone. She picks up immediately. “Hello,” she sings. She’s always in a good mood, like perpetually happy. Even though I love Chella best, sometimes her eternal optimism grates my nerves. I prefer the Rochelles of this world. The Nadias. If Ix likes the mean ones, the wasted ones, and the easy ones, then I like the broken ones. The falling-apart ones. The lost-in-the-dark ones.

  “What did he do?” I ask her.

  “Nothing really. You know, you’re a strange guy, Jordan.”

  “How so?” I ask.

  “Why do you do this shit? Why can’t you just settle down?”

  “Like Bric? And Smith? And Quin?”

  “And Lucinda. She’s out as well. But you? You keep playing. Don’t you get tired of these games?”

  “It’s not a game, it’s a business.”

  “Right. Smith has told me all about your new business. So is that what you’re doing with Ixion Vanir? Giving him a business experience?”

  “He’s just an employee,” I say.

  “Really?” she asks.

  “Really.”

  “So no hard feelings between the two of you?”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “I know about you. I looked you up before I went grocery-shopping for the house this morning.”

  “So?”

  “So I didn’t find anything.”

  I laugh. “What’s your point?”

  “On you, at least. But I did find something interesting about Ixion.”

  “He’s an interesting guy.”

  “Yes,” she says. “I think you’re right. He is. And he’s connected to you. And you’re quite interesting, in a missing-information kind of way.”

  “Anything else, Chella? I’m due in court.”

  “Just one more thing,” she says.

  “What’s that?”

  “Who are you trying to fix?”

  “What?”

  “Is it him? Or is it you?”

  “I have no—”

  “You’re so much like Bric.”

  “Fuck you,” I say, forgetting who I’m talking to for a moment.

  “But you’re different in a lot of ways too. Bric just played for fun. You take this all very seriously, don’t you? It’s almost personal, isn’t it?”

  I huff out a breath of air. “Goodbye, Chella. Thanks for your help.”

  “No problem,” she sings back.

  The call ends and I look at the screen as I stare out the window of my corner office in my father’s law practice.

  I’m nothing like Elias Bricman.

  Chapter Six - Evangeline

  “Why can’t you at least come with me?” I’m whining. I realize this. And even though Lucinda is patient, my neediness is wearing her down. I can almost feel her close her eyes and ask the Lord for patience. And I’m pretty sure she’s an atheist, so… yeah.

  “I told you,” she explains. “You must not associate this house with me. It must become your own.”

  I huff out some air. “Well, that’s fuckin’ stupid.”

  “Well, your phobia is fuckin’ stupid.”

  We both sit on the phone. Silent moments tick off. I think we’re holding our collective breath. I think she just closed her eyes again. This time asking the Lord she doesn’t believe in to take that back.

  “I’m sorry,” she finally says.

  “Whatever,” I say. “It is stupid.”

  “It’s not stupid,” she counters. “Your feelings are legitimate and I’m totally one hundred percent committed to your—”

  “Forget it,” I say, sorta pissed, but… sorta not. “I’m mad that you’re making me go alone, but I’m certainly grown-up enough to not make you feel bad because the truth slipped out.”

  “That’s mentally… mature of you, Evangeline.”

  We both huff out small laughs. So I beg again, “Just walk me to the gate.”

  “No,” she says. “I’m not going near that house. Ever. When you feel like it’s time to leave, you leave. And you call me. And we’ll meet. That’s how this has to go.”

  I say nothing. She’s not gonna give in on this.

  “You still there?”

  “Yes,” I say. “I’m picturing everything, that’s all.”

  “What are you picturing?”

  “I’m not sure yet.”

  “Well, keep the preconceived notions to a minimum, Evangeline. Just… go there with an open mind.”

  “It is a man?” I ask. “My watcher?”

  “I’m not going to say.”

  “And there’s cameras in the bedroom.”

  “Of course. Everywhere but the powder room on the main floor. I’ve already told you that.”

  “Is the watcher the guy you work with?”

  “No,” she says. “I will say that. It’s not him. That’s not professional.”

  “Who is that guy?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Do I know him?”

  “No,” she says through a sigh. “Forget about him. He’s just the person who sets things up. That’s it. He’s not part of my treatment plans.”

  But I’m so intrigued. It’s like… there’s this whole underground world hummin
g along just below my feet. And everyone up top has no clue at all. Like a secret, forbidden city hidden away in plain sight. Who is this guy? And how does one get offered the job as Evangeline Rolaine’s watcher? I mean, really, how does that happen? “How do you find these people?” I finally ask. “The watchers?”

  “This is the only watcher we’ve had to find. And it’s someone we both trust. So you can trust him or her as well.”

  “Is it an old woman?” I ask.

  “Evangeline.”

  “What? I think that’s legitimate. I mean, I think old people watching me is creepy. How can I get better if I’m consumed with creepiness?”

  “The watcher is not old.”

  “How old?”

  She sighs again. “Thirty… thirty-one, maybe? I’m not sure. Right around there.”

  “It’s a guy, isn’t it? Is he hot? If he’s hot, that might be… kinda hot.”

  “This conversation is over now,” she sings. “Get to the house by noon and settle in. If you decide to stop the treatment, you call me the minute you step out the door. Got it?”

  I sigh too. “Fine.”

  She waits for more. But when I don’t give her anything, she says, “I think this is gonna work.”

  “I hope so,” I say back. “I really hope so.”

  “I’ve left you a gift in the house.”

  “What is it?” I ask, unexpectedly excited.

  “I’m not going to tell you.” She laughs. “It’s just a housewarming gift. To make you feel at home.”

  I sigh again. “Thank you, Lucinda. I really do appreciate how hard you’ve worked this past year to help me. And for thinking outside the box as far as this plan goes.”

  “It’s… it’s a risk. We’ve talked about this. I wouldn’t set this up if I didn’t think it would help, so I think the chance for total recovery outweighs the risks.”

  “I think so too. I’ve been thinking about my dress, ya know? The one I’ll wear for my comeback performance. And I’ve never done that before.”

  “Well, if you need to go shopping for that dress after treatment, I would love to be your second opinion.”

  I smile, picturing Lucinda and I as friends. She’s older than me by almost twenty years. But I like her. And she’s honest. That comment about my stupid phobia just proves it. “Deal,” I say.