“You’re up,” Fenris said as he walked into my room.

  “Bucket!” I yelled, knowing that I had no chance of making it to the bathroom.

  He snatched the trashcan from under my desk and tossed it to me. I caught it without a second to spare, then puked my brains out. I felt better once I was done, but the throbbing in the back of my head persisted. My hand drifted up to it and found one hell of a bump.

  “Ouch,” I said, wincing in pain.

  “Seems like you took one hell of a digger outside of the bar tonight,” he replied, sitting down beside me on the bed. “Let me see how it’s doing.” I carefully turned so he could see it, the bucket of vomit still tight in my grasp. He sucked in a breath through his teeth, letting me know it looked as bad as it felt. “That’s going to take a while to heal, Eve. You’re lucky you didn’t need stitches.”

  “How did I get home?” I asked, reaching to put the wastebasket of puke down. Fenris took it from me and carried it out of the room before returning.

  “I’ll clean that up later,” he said with a smile. “As for how you got home…” He spread his arms wide and cocked his head. “Someone answered your phone and told me where you were. Told me that you were hurt.”

  I tried to remember what had happened, tried to figure out why there was an undercurrent of anger in his tone, but the events leading up to the massive goose egg on the back of my head were nowhere to be found.

  “You weren’t at the bar with me?”

  “No. I was not at the bar because I was at home, trying to convince you to let me come over to your house—where you said you were.”

  A faint memory of our conversation drifted into my mind, and along with it, tidbits of me being drunk and stoned on prescription meds and totally out of control. I could have done without that reminder. Guilt suffused me, and I forced myself to look at him.

  “I’m sorry, Fenris. I didn’t mean to—”

  “Scare the shit out of me? No, I’m sure you didn’t mean to, but you did,” he said, trying to bite back his anger. I reached for him and took his hand in mine. “I thought that—”

  “What?” I asked. “You thought what?”

  He pinned pain-filled eyes on me. “I thought you were going to die.”

  Had I really been that wasted? Was I really on the verge of overdosing or blood alcohol poisoning or whatever the combination amounted to? I racked my brain for the answers, but came up short.

  “So you came to the bar to get me? But… if I was unconscious, why wouldn’t whoever answered have called an ambulance?”

  He shrugged. “They just said where you were and hung up. I brought you right home because you looked okay at first—like you’d just had one too many and passed out. I didn’t find the bump on your head until much later. I figured you might have a concussion, so I stayed here so I could check on you.”

  “Thanks for that,” I said, throwing the blankets off my legs. It was then that I realized I didn’t have any clothes on—just a T-shirt and undies. My eyes darted up to Fenris, who met my shocked expression with a straight face.

  “Your clothes were all dirty from lying on the ground. I didn’t want you to sleep in them.”

  “That was… thoughtful,” I said, trying not to imply anything sordid had occurred. Fenris, shameful flirt that he was, had never done anything untoward before. He didn’t seem the type to take advantage of an unconscious girl.

  “I didn’t—”

  “I know you didn’t. Relax,” I said, cutting him off. “Could you pass me those jeans over there?” He did as I asked and tossed me the jeans hanging off the chair in the corner. “So… what now?”

  “Do you remember what happened?” he asked. “How you ended up passed out in the alley?”

  I sat on the edge of the bed and shimmied into my pants while Fenris did his best to focus elsewhere. But I could see his eyes dart to the flesh disappearing underneath the denim. They were full of need and disappointment.

  “I remember going to the bar. I remember drinking. And that’s about it.”

  His expression didn’t change. “That’s too bad.”

  “Maybe it’s for the best,” I countered. “Maybe there’s a reason why I can’t recall those events.”

  “The reason is your traumatic brain injury,” he said, taking a step closer to me. “Maybe we should go get you checked out at the hospital. Make sure there isn’t something else going on.” He stopped in front of me and reached toward my face, letting his thumb stroke the sharp line of my cheekbone. “I’d feel terrible if anything bad happened to you.”

  “Worse than passing out behind a dodgy bar in a bad part of town?”

  “Yes.”

  I smiled. “Look at you playing the role of concerned boyfriend.”

  “I don’t want to play it, Eve,” he said, letting that hand slide down to my neck. “I want to be it.”

  I looked on as his face lowered toward mine, eyes closing as he neared. His hand cupped the side of my neck just before his lips touched mine. His grip tightened ever so slightly, but that was all it took to trigger a barrage of memories—some from the night before, some not—that sent me into a downward spiral. Visions of the rocker in the alley, covered in blood, pressing against me. I pulled away from Fenris, breathing hard as I crashed against my headboard.

  “Eve? What is it?” He reached for me, and I recoiled from his touch.

  “I remember,” I said, panic thick in my voice. “There was a body. I saw a man kill someone.”

  Fenris loomed above me until he crouched down at my side, making himself look smaller and less imposing.

  “Eve—”

  “No! I saw it. I saw it all, I know I did this time.”

  “Eve, I think maybe you should go see the doctor—”

  “Don’t do that!” I shouted, backing away from him until I was wedged into the corner of my bed and the wall. “Do not make me sound crazy.”

  “I’m not trying to. I’m just concerned about your head right now. I think maybe you were hurt worse than I thought.”

  “Get out,” I said, my words little more than a snarl.

  “Eve—”

  “Get. Out!”

  “Please don’t—”

  “GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!” I screamed those words so loudly that my eardrums crackled until everything around me sounded muffled, like I was under water.

  Fenris hovered next to my bed, visibly struggling with what to do next. He didn’t want to leave me alone, that much was clear. Whether that was because he thought my brain was bleeding or I’d gone fucking nuts, I didn’t know. And I certainly didn’t care. He’d hit a nerve that couldn’t be soothed.

  I’d rage until he did as I asked.

  “I’m sorry I failed you, Eve,” he said in a voice laden with guilt and a heavy sense of responsibility. “I’ll go.”

  His head hung low as he turned and walked out of my room, then my apartment. The hollow sound of the door closing behind him seemed to ring out forever. I sat on my bed, trying my best to calm my breathing and clear my head, and failing miserably. I was spiraling fast, and it was well beyond my ability to stop it. I needed help from someone who understood me.

  I needed Gunnar Fredrickson.

  I fumbled with my cell phone until I pulled up his emergency number, and after two tries, I managed to call him. It rang and rang until I was certain it would go to voicemail, but on the fourth ring, a sleepy voice answered.

  “Hello?”

  “Gunnar! It’s Eve.”

  “Eve,” he said, suddenly sounding awake. “Is everything all right?”

  “No. I need to see you. Now.”

  “I’ll be at the office in fifteen minutes. We can meet in front of the building.”

  “Yeah. Okay. I’ll be right over.”

  I hung up as he was asking me a question, but I didn’t bother to call him back. Instead, I tried to hurry up and get dressed—as much as my throbbing head would allow—then searched for my keys. It took a while, but I finally found them hanging on the knob of my kitchen pantry. Fenris must not have known where to put them.

  Walking to the med center seemed the best idea, not only because driving with a concussion wasn’t recommended, but also because I had no idea where my car was. It was still dark outside, which made me question what time it was. In truth, I hadn’t noticed when I’d looked at my phone; it hadn’t been a top priority at the time. When I checked it as I walked across campus, I realized it was only five a.m. A small pang of guilt broke through my panic and paranoia. I’d probably scared the hell out of Gunnar with my call.

  I was only a couple of minutes away from our meeting place when I started to see shadows dancing in my periphery. I knew visual disturbances were common with head injuries, but I was pretty sure that wasn’t what was happening, even though I tried hard to convince myself otherwise. I started to jog the final few yards to the med center, my head pounding with every step. I was pretty sure I was going to puke again by the time I hit the parking lot, but I didn’t care. Every fiber of my paranoid being was screaming at me to run.

  I crested the small hill that flattened out into the back of the lot to see Gunnar standing by the front door. One look at me, wide-eyed and panting hard, and he was in a dead sprint toward me. The closer he got, the more the look on his face scared me.

  “Eve!” he shouted, scooping me up in his arms and running back to the building. His pace seemed abnormally quick for a man carrying someone, which made me more anxious than I already was—if that were even possible. “What happened?”

  When I didn’t respond right away, he crashed through the door and slammed it shut behind him, not bothering to lock it. We were in his office seconds later, where he laid me down gently on the couch near the wall. His eyes searched my body for what I assumed were expected injuries. Then he took my pulse.

  “Your heart is beating way too quickly.”

  “I ran here… with a head injury.”

  His expression hardened. “Maybe you should rest for a minute while I get you some water. Then we can start from the beginning.” He turned to look over his shoulder out the window on the far wall. “I’ll be right back.”

  He exited the room and closed the door behind him. I laid my head back and closed my eyes, letting the sense of calm I felt at knowing he would help me work through the craziness wash over me. If anyone could make sense of what was going on with me, it was Gunnar. That was his gift in life: somehow making everything okay.

  The jiggle of the door handle sounded, and I opened my eyes to see Gunnar walking in with a bottle of water.

  “Sorry that took so long. This was harder to find than I’d have thought.” I pushed myself up to sit, resting my head in my hands for a second. Once I was confident I had my bearings, I looked up at him and took the bottle he offered. “Are you feeling better?”

  “Yeah. A bit.”

  “You sounded pretty upset on the phone.”

  “I was,” I replied, taking a swig from the bottle.

  “Would you like to tell me what happened?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  He sat down in the chair nearest to me. “I’ve got time,” he said with a faint smile.

  I took a deep breath and did as he asked. I told him everything I remembered about the murder in the alcove, the strange run-in at my father’s, my journals, and the murder and subsequent assault that led to me finding myself in my apartment with Fenris. Then I told him how I’d snapped when my memory of last night had returned and Fenris had tried to downplay it. How I was slipping down a dangerous slope again. How I feared my mind was barely hanging on.

  When I was finished, Gunnar sat quietly, studying me with thoughtful eyes.

  “I now understand why you were so upset when you called.”

  “Yeah, about that. I’m sorry I woke you—I had no clue what time it was.”

  “I’m always here for you, Eve. That’s my job—my duty. You don’t need to apologize.”

  I forced a quick smile before hiding my emotions behind the water bottle, taking a long, drawn-out drink to let the awkwardness of the moment dissipate.

  “So Freddie,” I said, trying to lighten the mood. “What do you think?”

  “I think you were assaulted and sustained a severe trauma tonight, which you are understandably shaken up about.”

  “But the murder—you believe me, right? That it happened?”

  “What I believe isn’t important, Eve—”

  “It is to me! Your opinion sure as fuck matters.”

  He took a second to regroup before speaking. “My opinion matters to you… let’s talk more about that.”

  “What else is there to say? I care what you think. I don’t want you to see me as some damaged little girl!”

  “Do you see yourself as a damaged little girl?”

  Yes.

  “No.”

  “Then why would I?”

  “Don’t start with all that conventional mind voodoo, Gunnar. I want you to level with me—off the record. Do you believe me? Do you believe I saw what I saw?”

  He took a deep breath before standing up and walking over to sit beside me. His leg was so close that it brushed against mine, and I wondered if he did that so I’d think he was breaking the rules in that moment—that he was about to tell me the truth.

  “I think someone smashed your head and you have a concussion. That much I know is true.”

  “But you think I’m lying about the rest?”

  “I didn’t say that. I can’t confirm or deny what you saw because I wasn’t there. I do have an idea, though—one that will require a great deal of trust on your part.” He looked at me, driving his point home. “Can you do that? Can you trust me?”

  He reached his hand out toward me and left it hanging in the air, waiting to see if I’d take it. I didn’t have to think about it for long. The truth was, I did trust him. From almost the moment I’d met him, I’d known he was my ally. Someone who had my back. So I took the hand he offered and let him help me up from the couch.

  I followed him out of the building to his car and climbed in the passenger side. He asked me again where it had all happened, and I told him. Then we were on our way. It didn’t take long to see that he was taking me to the Sketchy Fox.

  Gunnar parked the car not even a block from the bar. At that hour of the morning, spaces were a lot easier to come by. I spotted my car further down the street and made a mental note to make sure I drove it home when we left. I wasn’t sure that mental note would hold up after we did what we were about to do, but it was the best I option I had.

  “Which way?” Gunnar asked, looking at me across the roof of the car.

  “It was down the back alley,” I said, pointing in that direction.

  He nodded once, then made his way around to the sidewalk and me. When he walked past and I didn’t follow, he stopped short and turned to face me.

  “It’ll be okay, Eve.”

  My fractured mind seemed inclined to disagree.

  When I remained still, he came over to me and placed his hands on my shoulders.

  “I won’t let anything happen to you,” he said, his tone as earnest as his expression.

  “You can’t say things like that,” I argued, looking past him to the alley awaiting us. “You’re not supposed to.”

  His eyes softened, searching mine for something—some semblance of understanding. When he didn’t find it, he exhaled hard and reached down to take my hand in his.

  “I thought I told you before—I’m not your average therapist.”

  Before I could respond, he gently led the way over to where my nightmare had occurred. With the early light of the morning dawning on us, the space looked far less intimidating, but I was still in a full sweat by the time we reached the back of the Sketchy Fox. I stared down at the concrete in utter disbelief. It was clear from the lack of bloodstains and police tape that no crime had been committed there.

  Or at least none that hadn’t been quickly covered up.

  “I swear it happened,” I said under my breath, pulling my hand from Gunnar’s to walk over to the very spot where the body had been splayed across the alley. “It was right here. And the killer—he stood over it like this. The blade was in his left hand… I remember because it was the one closest to me, and I had some morbid thought about how many left-handed murderers there were in the world…”

  “Eve—”

  “But then he stared at me with those wild, haunted eyes of his, and I froze. I didn’t even try to run. Isn’t that crazy? That I knew what he was capable of and I didn’t even try to escape?”

  “Maybe you knew he wasn’t going to kill you,” he offered.

  “No. Maybe he wasn’t. Maybe he likes to play with his toys before he breaks them.”

  I was staring off into the distance when I heard Gunnar’s phone ring. I could see him in my periphery pulling it out to see who was calling. I wondered if maybe another one of his patients was also losing their shit. How inconvenient that would have been.

  “You can get it,” I said, giving him permission he hadn’t asked for. “I’m fine.”

  “They can wait,” he replied, taking a step closer to me. “Do you want to tell me more? Show me more?”

  “You know the rest,” I said, my voice weak and hollow. “I made it all up in my head…”

  “Eve,” he started, taking another step toward me. I snapped my wide eyes to him, and he stopped short. “Eve, I want to try something with you. Something incredibly unorthodox. Is that okay?”

  “You just admitted that you don’t exactly follow the therapist handbook anyway,” I replied, implying permission.

  “I don’t want you to be afraid.”

  “I think we’re well past that at this point.”

  “I wish there were an easier way to do this, Eve. I just don’t see another way.” I swore I heard him mumble under his breath, “we’re running out of time.”

  “Just do it,” I replied, sounding as empty as I felt. My sanity was waning with every moment I stood in that alley with him, remembering all the nuances of a crime that apparently hadn’t been committed. What could he possibly do to make it worse? What possible tool of his could knock that already shaky foundation out from under me?