“Yes,” he says. “You should get to bed. As for letting me go?” He takes my face between his hands. “I’m always here for you, Casey. If you need me, I’m here. If you don’t? I’ll still be here.”

He kisses my forehead again, and I know he’s telling me, whether I want more or not, he’ll still be there. Which is, I think, the sweetest thing a guy has ever said to me, and I wish … But there’s no sense wishing, because it’s only going to make me feel guilty and stupid—too stupid to take the damned good thing that’s right in front of me, stupid enough to hold out for something I’m not going to get. That’s the way it is, though, and one thing I won’t be stupid enough to do? Tell myself I’m wrong and hurt Anders when it turns out I’m not.

“I’m going to crash here,” he says, and waves to the couch. “Okay?”

I nod and smile. “Okay,” I say, then I hug him and tell him thanks, a deep and genuine thanks, before I head upstairs.

I’m too exhausted to think about Diana. That does not, however, mean that I have a long and restful slumber. I set my alarm for one-thirty, but I’m up an hour sooner, waking from a nightmare.

I’m sure Diana would not commit cold-blooded murder. She wouldn’t even do what I had—kill someone in the heat of the moment. Could a combination of booze and rydex have sent her into a murderous rage? I want to say no—that someone framed her. But I find that nearly as impossible to believe as Beth does. Which leaves only one conclusion. That something has snapped in Diana, and I saw it snap, and I backed off, like Isabel said. Which makes whatever happened partly my fault.

In that distracted state of mind, I make my way downstairs. I’m walking through the living room when I see a figure sitting on my couch, and I jump back fast before I realize it’s Anders. He’s sitting on my sofa and staring at me … dressed only in my panties.

I know it’s not my almost-naked body that has his attention. It’s the scars.

I mumble an apology and hightail it back up the stairs. Anders follows, rapping on my door and saying, “Shit, I’m sorry, Casey, that was—”

“—one hundred percent my fault,” I say as I yank on some clothes. “I forgot you were down there.”

“Still, I wasn’t exactly being a gentleman and looking away, which is why I’m apologizing.”

“There are a lot of scars.”

It takes him a moment to reply. “No, I never noticed—I mean, you were naked, so I was—”

I crack open the door, hiding behind it as I smile for him. “It’s okay. I know what I look like.”

“You’re beautiful. Hell, I have scars. Yours surprised me, sure, but it doesn’t make you any less—”

“And we’ll stop there,” I say, my smile turning genuine. “I appreciate the flattery, but let’s not make this any more awkward.”

“It’s not flattery. I …” He takes a deep breath. “And that’s not making this any less awkward. Can I fix you a late breakfast?”

I nod and withdraw.

I come down as Anders is finishing the coffee.

“It happened in college,” I say, standing in the doorway. “My boyfriend was dealing drugs on someone else’s turf. We got jumped by a few guys. My boyfriend took off. I spent six weeks in the hospital. I went to confront him afterward, and made the mistake of bringing a gun.”

It’s the first time I’ve said that to anyone outside therapy, and my heart is thumping so hard I can barely breathe.

“Shitty boyfriend,” he says as he brings me a coffee.

I sputter a laugh. “Yes, but not really the point of that confession.”

He shrugs. “Close enough.”

“You don’t seem surprised. You knew?”

He takes eggs from the counter. “No, but if someone asked me why you were here, I’d have said you did something to someone who damned well deserved it. Which doesn’t make it any easier.” He looks at the eggs in his hand. “Scrambled?”

“Sure.”

“Good, ’cause that’s all I can make.” He takes out a pan, puts it on the blazing wood stove. “Mine was in the military. I killed someone who didn’t deserve to die. At all. I screwed up. Big time.”

“I’ve heard it happens over there.”

He nods and turns away as he cracks the eggs.

“Which doesn’t make it any easier,” I say.

“Nope, it doesn’t.” He tosses the shells into the compost box. “Does being here make it easier for you?”

I nod. “It does. Like I said, it happened in college, so it’s old news. But …”

“It never goes away.”

“It still hasn’t, and maybe this is just me hiding and pretending things are better—”

“Don’t analyze. Eric does enough of that for both of us.”

I laugh and sip my coffee.

“Which helps,” Anders says. “Though I’d never admit it to him. He can be a pain in the ass, telling you exactly what your problem is, but some of us need that more than a therapist’s couch. Someone who won’t let us hide. When I came here …” He shakes his head. “I was a fucking mess. I didn’t want to be here. Same as you—yeah, Diana told me you came to Rockton for her. I came because the one person who thought I was worth saving—my sister—put my ass on the plane, and I’d already let her down too much to ever do it again. Then I got here and …”