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Two little movements, and—

I can’t.

I can’t do it.

I fish the Potomac Loft Living key card out of my skirt pocket and slap it unceremoniously onto the table. The anvil on my chest gets heavier.

Daniel returns with a tiny bottle of Krazy Glue. I’m remembering now that superglue doesn’t work all that well on parts of the body that move a ton—and this isn’t even close to medical-grade superglue—but I’m too tired to change course. I glue the wound shut, only wincing a bit, and pick a position to hold my hand in while it dries. It’s hard to focus. My fingers keep shaking.

Daniel rubs his stubble as he watches, then slides the key card back into his possession.

“Nothing?” he says.

I swallow hard.

“Nothing,” I whisper.

“Jesus Christ,” he says. I open my mouth to say something, anything, but he’s already off on a tear. It startles me. “After all that at the club? If we want to get technical, you stole the card. If Greg or your mom started asking about it, we’d be in some pretty deep shit. And if word gets out that I’ve been sneaking you around, getting you into clubs, helping you out, all that journalistic integrity goes”—he makes a whooshing sound—”out the window.”

What integrity? There hasn’t been an ounce of it in this entire production.

“I didn’t steal it,” I say.

“I didn’t give it to you. You took it.”

He’s implying something and I can’t keep up. My brain feels like a wheel spinning in mud. “You didn’t stop me.”

“You waited until I was drunk.” He leans closer. Looms. Until he blocks out the big light glaring down at us both. “You took advantage of me.”

No. No, that’s not …

I shouldn’t have come. This was a mistake.

Daniel is standing between me and the door.

“You’re the grown-up,” I say, voice dull because I can’t get it to do anything else. Right? He’s twenty-one. Or twenty-something. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that he’s the adult here. “You’re supposed to—”

“And you’re a conniving, tricky little bitch,” Daniel counters. “First Dr. Reich, and now me? Is that what’s happening here?”

Accusing Dr. Reich of misconduct that never happened was a mistake. I know that. But I panicked, okay? It was the only way to make him stop, to make sure my medical record wouldn’t label me as a psychopath for the rest of my life. I did it because I had to. I swear.

“No.” I wheeze. “No.”

“Bullshit.” My body recoils from Daniel as he bares his teeth. “Listen. We agreed to help each other out. You cooperate, give me a shot at showing my uncle what I can do, and I do what I can to make sure you don’t get your life ruined in the process. Right?”

My eyes flit to the door. His face wrinkles in frustration.

“And I like you,” he continues. “Against my best interests, sure, but I do. I’ve wanted to help. I thought we got along, we were in this together, all that shit. So forgive me for feeling a little undervalued.”

I’m so tired. I haven’t eaten in hours. I feel sick.

I want to go home.

“Then we call off the deal.” I put a hand on the table like I’m about to stand. “Sorry it’s not working out. I’m done.”

Daniel puts a hand over mine—my injured hand—and leans all his weight on it. The pain is sharp. I gasp.

The anvil on my chest feels like it’s going to snap my ribs.