So I cried.

It was not hard; I had plenty of real grief to draw on.

I let my hands shake.

I let Nathan see the fragile, frightened woman he had spent three years constructing, because that woman was exactly what he needed to see in order to stop watching me closely.

“I don’t understand,” I whispered.

“You really think I’m sick?” “We think you need help, sweetheart,” Nathan said, and there was a gleam of triumph under the concern that told me everything about who he really was.

He slid a pen across the table.