Dr. Evelyn James

Psychologist of alcoholism and treatment

I check the time on the small digital clock next to the lamp: 8 p.m. It may not be too late yet.

I had first met Dr. James when I dated Troy. I’d been in one of the local homeless shelters, escaping his fists, when she’d found me crying into a bowl of vegetable soup. She’d been the first person to listen to me in such a long time that I found myself unburdening ten years’ worth of despair right there at the table. She’d never judged me, simply gave me her card and told me to call if I ever needed her.

Well, I need her.

Grabbing the cordless phone next to the clock, I punch in the number and wait as it rings. I’m just about to give up when she answers. “Hello?” a polite, yet tired woman answers. Hope blooms inside me as I recognize her voice.

“Dr. James?” I say breathlessly. “I don’t know if you’ll remember me, but my name is Shannon Harper. We met a few years ago at a soup kitchen.”

“Shannon,” Dr. James says, sounding surprised. “It’s such a pleasure to hear from you again. Of course I remember you.”

Tears immediately well up in my eyes as I hear her friendly voice. It’s not likely that she really does remember me, but the fact that she’s pretending warms my heart. It’s not long before I find myself pouring my heart out once again. Only this time, there’s no vegetable soup.

“Dear me,” Dr. James says gently once I’m finished speaking and the tears have dried up. “It sounds like you’ve got yourself in quite a situation.”

“I know.” I sigh, raking a hand through my hair. “But what can I do about it?”

“This Stone,” Dr. James says. “Do you think he wants to be helped?”

“I don’t know if he wants help,” I admit, shaking my head even though she can’t actually see me. “But I know he needs it.”

“Then you need to help him,” Dr. James says matter-of-factly.

“How?” I ask. How do you even begin to help a man as damaged as Ethan Stone? I stay on the phone with Dr. James for another hour as she helps me understand a little more about what Stone might be going through.

By the time I hang up, I know what I have to do.

I groan as Shannon opens the curtains, throwing a hand over my eyes to block the sudden light.

“Good morning, sunshine,” she sings as she moves around the room, albeit a little slowly in the wheelchair.

“What time is it?” I ask, cracking open my eyes as I lower my arm to watch her. She’s wearing one of my long shirts with no pants. Her hair is thrown up in a messy bun, but there’s a twinkle in her eye. I have the feeling that twinkle will be trouble.

“It’s almost noon.” She smiles brightly, and I can’t help the grin that spreads across my face. She’s so damn beautiful. I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and sit up. My head is pounding and as beautiful as Shannon is, her happy mood is starting to grate on my nerves just a little bit.

“What are you doing?” I ask, watching as she wheels around the room, grabbing my clothes off the floor. I glance down and feel my face flush. “Did you undress me?”

“Of course,” she replies, glancing at me in surprise. “You couldn’t expect me to let you sleep in wet clothes, could you?”

“Of course not,” I say, shaking my head in disbelief.

“Great.” She smiles, her arms full of dirty clothes. “Where’s your washing machine?”

“Um, it’s out the back on the porch,” I answer, wiping the sleep from my eyes. “But leave it; I’ll get it later.”

“It’s fine,” Shannon says, turning the wheelchair around. “I’ll be right back.”

She leaves the room, and I pull on a pair of black shorts and walk out into the living room, but I stop dead when I see it. The whole room is spotless. All the beer bottles have been cleared away, the empty takeaway containers thrown out. She’s even cleaned the couch and scrubbed the coffee table. The whole room smells like a combination of flowers and bleach. It hasn’t looked this way in months.

I shake my head and walk out onto the back porch. Shannon is humming a country tune as she dumps the clothes into the front loader and turns it on. I watch as she carefully spins the chair around and wheels over to the upturned table. The wheel bumps into it and I hurry to help her. “Let me,” I offer, picking the table up effortlessly and standing it upright. She beams at me, and it’s like a ray of fucking sunshine straight to my heart.

“Thank you,” she says as she straightens the books and magazines. “Why don’t you head in and put some coffee on? I’ll be along in a minute.”

“Okay,” I reply slowly, my brow creasing as I turn around and walk back inside.

I’m not really sure how I feel about Shannon cleaning my house. I’m embarrassed; she must think I’m such a pig. The house looks and smells amazing, though. I really should thank her. I plug the coffee maker in and turn it on, opening the fridge to grab myself my usual breakfast beer. My hand reaches in blindly and I freeze, slowly turning my head toward the open fridge.

There’s no beer.

My breathing becomes shallow and I start to hyperventilate. Stomach churning, I have to lean over the table to stop from throwing up. My hands are clammy and shaking as I turn back to the fridge, moving things around, desperately searching for just one bottle. I pull various foods out, one by one, and still come up empty-handed.

“I guess you noticed, huh?” Shannon says in a quiet voice behind me.

I turn slowly to face her, my harsh breathing loud in the quiet room. “What did you do?” I ask in a low voice, anger coursing through me when she just sits there, looking at me. I stomp over to her, leaning forward as I grab the arms of the wheelchair, pushing my face into hers. She flinches and recoils, but there’s nowhere for her to escape. “What. The fuck. Did you do?” I speak slowly, emphasizing each word as I grit my teeth.

She pales, but juts out her chin bravely and meets my eyes with a steely determination. “I got rid of it,” she barks.

“You got rid of it,” I repeat hollowly. “I see that. Where is it?”

“I poured it down the sink.”

No no no no no! I scream in my head. Shoving away from the wheelchair I rake a hand over my head. I can’t look at her, can’t speak to her. Doesn’t she fucking know I need my beer?

A roar of fury rips from my chest and I sweep my arm across the counter, knocking the coffee maker to the ground and spilling boiling water all over myself. Shannon screams and pushes the wheelchair back, but I still can’t look at her. I can’t breathe, and my chest is tight, like it’s about to cave in. I gasp for air as I lean over, my palms flat on the table.

“Stone,” she says in a quiet voice. I raise my eyes to her. Her eyes are wide and terrified; she’s clearly scared of what I might do. Doesn’t she know I’d never hurt her? I can’t comfort her, though. Not now. “I need to get the fuck out of here,” I mutter, pushing away from the table and searching for my keys. They’re not in their usual spot; where the fuck are they?

“You can’t leave,” Shannon tells me, following me into the living room. I don’t look at her as I toss the cushions off the couch and shove my hand down the back of it. I feel an assortment of dust and a few loose coins, but no keys.

“Why not?” I ask, still not looking at her.

“Because Keets has your keys.”

I freeze as what she said sinks in. I risk a glance at her, half-expecting to see her holding the keys up with a grin. She’s serious.

I feel like my world is crumbling around my feet. “Why does Keets have my keys?”