Her words hit me over the head like a sledge hammer.

I thought my heart was already broken but it wasn’t.

Not completely.

Not until now.

“I know what happened the night Storm was attacked, Kacey. I know,” Livie says, watching me under a meaningful gaze. Storm. I shoot a glare her way, and Livie scolds me with a waggling finger. “Don’t you dare give Storm grief over telling me, Kacey Delyn Cleary. Don’t you dare. Storm told me because she cares about you, and she wants you to get help. You almost attacked a man with a broken beer bottle. We’re not going to help you avoid your shit anymore, understand?” Livie gracelessly wipes the tears away. “I’m not doing it anymore.”

I’ve told myself time and time again that this is all for Livie. Everything I've done is to protect Livie. If I watch her now, if I look at what Livie has had to deal with, I wonder if it’s all been about protecting myself? I know Livie lost her parents. I know she lost me too, in a way. But have I ever really considered what she feels like? Tried to put myself in her shoes? I figured no one’s shoes were half as bad as the ones dragging me down like cement blocks. And Livie never let on. She’s always been so strong and level-headed. She’s always been Livie—with or without my parents. I just thought …

I didn’t think … My God! I never really weighed my actions, all my reactions, and what they do to Livie. I just figured if I was upright and breathing, that I was here for her. For Livie. But in a way, I never really have been.

Suddenly I want to die.

I feel my head bob up and down, all resistance vanishing as a new level of pain surges. Awareness. All I’ve ever told myself is that I want to protect my little sister from pain, but it hasn’t been about protecting her. It’s been about protecting me. All I keep doing is causing pain for her. For everyone in my life.

“Good,” Dr. Stayner takes that as an agreement. “I will have your room prepared. The first part of your therapy will begin now.” I’m reeling over how quickly he seems to react. Efficient and business-like, but at the same time like a tornado, swooping in to wreak havoc. He smoothly walks over to the door and motions someone in.

No. I cower in my bed and squeeze Livie’s hands until she whimpers slightly. Good God, please … no! He wouldn’t.

An older version of Trent turns the corner and steps into my room, sorrow marring his handsome features.

Trent’s father.

Cole’s father.

Fuck. I don’t even know what to call him anymore.

“I want you to listen to what Mr. Reynolds has to say. Nothing more. Just listen. Can you manage that?” Dr. Stayner asks me.

I think I nod, but I’m not sure, I’m too busy staring at this man’s face, how much he reminds me of his face. His eyes that I fell into day after day. Happy. In love. Yes. In love. I was in love with Trent. With my life’s murderer.

“We’ll be here with you the whole time,” Storm says, gripping onto my free hand.

Trent/Cole’s father clears his throat. “Hello, Kacey.”

I don’t respond. I just watch him slide his hands into his pockets and hold them there. Just like his son does. “My name is Carter Reynolds. You can call me Carter.”

A shiver runs through my body at the sound of that family name.

“I want to apologize to you for all that my son has put you and your sister through. I tried to do so four years ago, but the police issued the restraining orders. My family and I respected your privacy then. Unfortunately, Cole … Trent has since harmed you again.”

He takes a few steps further into the room until he’s at the end of my bed, casting a furtive look at Dr. Stayner, who only smiles at him. “It was our car … my car … that Sasha drove the night of the accident.” A frown flashes across his face. “I think you knew that, though, right? Insurance papers would have specified that.”

There’s a pause as if he’s waiting for me to acknowledge. I don’t.

“We lost Cole after the accident. He ceased to exist. He dropped out of Michigan State, quit football, cut off all contact with his friends. He left his girlfriend of four years and stopped drinking altogether. He changed his name from Cole Reynolds to Trent Emerson—his middle name and his mother’s maiden name.”

Carter pauses, his lips pressing together in a slight scowl. “That accident tore our family apart. His mother and I divorced a year later.” He waves his hand dismissively. “That doesn’t matter. What I do want you to know is that Cole … er … Trent is a troubled young man. Two years after the accident, I found him in my garage with the car running and a hose connected to the tail pipe. We thought we lost him for good that night.” Carter’s voice cracks with emotion and I feel an unwelcome spike of pain over the image in my head. “Soon after that, we admitted him to Dr. Stayner’s inpatient program for post traumatic stress disorder.” Again, Carter looks to the doctor to see him smiling and nodding him on. “When they released Trent, it was with a seal of approval. We were sure he had recovered. He laughed and smiled again. He began calling us regularly. He enrolled in a graphic design school in Rochester. He seemed to have moved on. He even attended outpatient programs and therapy groups to help others get through their grief.

“Then, six weeks ago, it looked like he was having a relapse. He appeared on his mother’s door step, mumbling something about you and how you’ll never forgive him. We brought him here and admitted him to Dr. Stayner.”

I fight hard to school the shock from my face. So all the time that Trent was missing, he was here, in Chicago. In a hospital for P.T.S.D., the thing he was insistent on curing me of.

“A few days after release, Trent was ecstatic again. We couldn’t figure it out. We thought maybe he was manic or on drugs. Dr. Stayner said no to both. He couldn’t tell us what was going on because of patient-doctor privilege.”

“And I didn’t know what was going on, to be clear. Trent hid critical information from his sessions with me, knowing I wouldn’t approve,” Dr. Stayner interrupts.

“Right,” Carter dips his head in assent. “We figured it out three days ago, when his mother ran into the receptionist here and she asked if Trent and Kacey had worked things out. She didn’t think anything of it, given Trent mentioned he had a girlfriend named Kacey and they were having trouble. I guess he felt telling the receptionist was low risk.”

Carter sighs. “When my son left the inpatient program two years ago, he did so with the belief that if he could fix your life, he would be forgiven for all the pain that he had caused.” He looks down at the floor now, as a shadow of shame crosses his face. “My son has been watching you from a distance for two years, Kacey. Biding his time until he approached you.”

I hardly notice Livie’s fingers dig into my forearm. Though I don’t feel much, the knowledge spikes somewhere deep inside. Trent’s been following me? Stalking me? All because he wants to fix what he broke? I want to make you happy. Make you smile. His words play back in my head. It all makes sense now. He truly did. He was on a mission to fix me.

“His mother and I had no idea, Kacey. Honestly. But Trent has watched over you for the past two years. He knew someone from school who could hack into your email. That’s how he found out you were moving to Miami. We had no clue that he up and left New York. But he did, leaving his condo and his life to come to follow you with this notion that if he could fix your life, he would be forgiven. We talked daily over email and voice mail. He even came to visit his mother once.”

“So I was a project,” I mutter to myself. A peace project.

Nauseous. That’s all I feel right now. Thick bile rising up my throat as realization hits. He never cared about me. I was a step in a fucked up twelve-step program he created in his head. “It doesn’t matter.” My voice is hollow. It really doesn’t matter.