“In English,” he said finally, hiding his smirk when he saw the familiar intensity burst in Miss Lane’s eyes.

There she is.

“In English,” she snarled, “I’m offering to tutor you on a one-to-one basis so you can apply for early parole despite your acting like a complete asshole, even when people are trying to help you.”

Jack stared in amazement at the little spitfire. Carter let his eyes roam down the curves and skin of her face and neck in fascination as a red heat flashed across her. He licked his lips. Damn, she was hot when she was pissed.

Abruptly, Miss Lane stood from her seat, scraping it hard against the floor before it fell back with a loud clatter. She looked at it, not moving to pick it back up and, instead, grabbed at her bag, dropping it twice before she got a secure hold on it.

Jack stood with her while she struggled. “Miss Lane?”

“Forget it,” she snapped. “I’m not wasting my time. It’s obvious you’re incapable of being anything other than ungrateful when someone offers to help.” She pulled her bag onto her shoulder. “But I get it. I get that accepting my offer wouldn’t help the totally-cool-badass persona you’ve got going on here, and I get that you’re terrified someone might see you for the intelligent person you actually are. I’m sure Mr. Ward will be thrilled that you’ll be seeing out the rest of your sentence, but who cares, right?” She spun on her heel.

Well, fuck.

Seeing the fire and challenge in her eyes and hearing the truth in her words, Carter suddenly realized the lifeline she was offering, a way of getting the parole he so desperately wanted, and his childish behavior was going to make her walk out of the room, leaving him with nothing. As infuriating as he found Miss Lane to be, he couldn’t deny he was touched that she’d agreed to help him.

He cleared his throat. “Miss Lane?”

She stopped marching toward the door. Her shoulders rose as she turned to him with an impatient expression.

“I, um,” he began, tapping his fingertips along the edge of the table, unused to showing gratitude, let alone feeling it. “Look I—I appreciate that,” Carter stammered, his eyes flitting around the room.

Miss Lane glanced at Jack, who appeared equally speechless. “Don’t worry about it. It was stupid of me to—”

“No,” he interrupted. “It wasn’t stupid. It was a good idea. I think …” Carter glanced at Jack for assistance.

“Wes,” Jack coaxed. “Are you saying you want Miss Lane to tutor you?”

Carter dropped his eyes to the table, reaching for the cigarettes.

“Well, okay,” Jack whispered. “Miss Lane?”

“So,” she said, taking a slow step toward the table. “We’re going to do this?”

“I said so, didn’t I?” Carter growled through a fog of smoke that curled into the air around him. A bemused look crossed Miss Lane’s face before she retook her seat.

Twenty minutes later and with her diary filled with the times and dates she and Carter were meeting, Miss Lane stood once again from the table and held her hand out to Jack.

He shook it enthusiastically. “Thank you, Katherine. We’ll talk more, I’m sure.”

“Absolutely,” she replied with a smile. “And call me Kat.” She glanced at Carter. “See you Monday.”

But Carter remained mute, unmoving. Still as a statue, he kept his eyes fixed on the door as it closed behind her. His pulse thundered in his ears while the sound of her name reverberated through his skull with each ferocious beat of his heart.

Katherine. Katherine. Katherine.

Once they were alone, Jack turned to him with a huge-ass smile on his face. “Wes, this is great!” He clapped his hands together. “This is really great, right? Wes?” Jack repeated, sliding his hands into his pockets. “Wes, are you—?”

“What did you call her?” Carter croaked. His airway squeezed, making him gasp. He pushed a slow hand to his chest where a tightness, the likes of which he’d never encountered, pulled taut and unforgiving.

“What?” Jack asked in confusion.

Carter’s eyes closed. He swallowed. “What did you call Miss Lane?”

Jack frowned. “I called her Katherine. Why?”

Katherine Lane. Katherine fucking Lane.

As the world around him tilted, making the room swim horrifically, Carter dropped his head like a lead weight to his knees. His breath hitched and tripped over itself as it fought to get to his lungs.

It couldn’t be. There was no way.

No.

What were the odds?

The chance was minute.

He grabbed at his scalp in disbelief.

“It can’t be her.”

He pulled in as much air as he could, but it was useless. The walls were closing in while panic and disbelief gripped him mercilessly by the throat. He was choking.

Jack dropped to his knees in front of him. “Who, Wes?” he urged. “Wes, talk to me. Who are you talking about?” He grasped Carter’s shoulder.

“It can’t be,” Carter mumbled.

“Who? Miss Lane?”

“No,” Carter replied, vaguely aware of the alarm creeping into Jack’s voice. “She’s not Miss Lane, she’s— Oh fuck.”

“Who?” Jack asked, tightening his grip on Carter’s shoulder.

Carter finally looked at his counselor through eyes that could barely see, his vision fogged with memories so thick he could almost touch them.

Thick, wavy hair. A blue dress. Gunshots. Screams.

He grabbed for Jack’s arm and squeezed, clinging for his life, needing to be grounded, needing something to keep him from falling apart completely. He choked back a sob.

Long gone was the strong, arrogant twenty-seven-year-old man. Once again, he was a scared shitless eleven-year-old, desperate for someone to love him, frantically trying to save the life of a tiny, petrified girl.

He tried to answer Jack. Fuck, he tried. He wanted to tell him everything. He wanted to beg him to get him out of the room before he lost his shit altogether. He was losing his shit. Was this what dying felt like?

Like a broken dam, Carter’s memory burst wide fucking open, each image like a firework exploding in his vision, whizzing around his brain, squealing in his ears. He dropped his head, squeezing his eyes shut and clutching the lapel of Jack’s jacket, scrunching the wool in his palm, willing his whole body to calm, to relax and back the fuck up. Infuriatingly, the more he tried to slow his breathing, the more his body closed up.

He grunted in terror when his throat shrank more and more, and slumped his sweating forehead heavily against his counselor’s shoulder, speaking the words he never thought he’d utter since that horrific night sixteen years before.

“Jack,” he whispered. “She’s my Peaches.”

7

“I have to get to my daddy!”

“Keep moving! We have to get away from them. They’ll kill you! Move!”

“Wes?”

“No! He needs me!”

“Wes. Can you open your eyes for me?”

“Stay still!”

“Wesley. You’re all right.”

Carter lunged up from the clinic bed into a sitting position, wide-eyed and gasping. He glanced around, almost frantic, and jumped when a hand touched his arm. He turned to see Jack standing next to the bed, his face creased with concern. He swallowed hard, trying like hell to coat his sandpaper throat. The fuzziness in his head was still front and center. Fuck, he felt like death.

“Where am I?” He blinked and looked around the room at the whitewashed walls and the surprised expressions of a doctor and two guards.

“You’re in the facility clinic, Wesley,” the doctor answered.

“It’s Carter, and who the hell was talking to you, Doc?” he snapped. The doctor flinched and took a step backward.

“Wes,” Jack said softly. “You had a panic attack.”

He coughed a laugh, ignoring the heat of embarrassment that crept up the center of his body. “Says who?”

“Says me,” the doctor interjected.

Carter stared at him for a beat. “I’m outta here.” He swung his legs to the right so they were hanging off the bed. “Where are my shoes?”