“Drazen pledge,” I said.

“I’m your lawyer. Anything you say is under attorney-client privilege.”

I held up my hand. “Are you opening pledge or not?”

“Fine.” She held up her hand. “Pledge open.”

I relaxed. Between myself and my seven siblings, six sisters and one brother, opening a pledge meant nothing said could be repeated and only the truth could be spoken.

“This is so hard to explain,” I said.

“It’ll get easier after the first ten times.”

“I don’t know where to start.”

She crossed her arms. “Start by not stalling. Assume I know you use drugs. Assume I know you’ve had more sex in the past three years than I’ve had in my life.”

“We had an open-ish relationship.”

“Okay.”

“The ish part is that…” I swallowed. “Up until a few months ago, my other partners were limited to people we knew, at parties he threw.” I didn’t mention the knottings. I wasn’t ready to tell her I had been a fuckable art object, because I’d have to explain that I’d never been in such control of my sexuality as I was in this open-ish relationship.

“And why did that change?”

There was a relief in her question, because it didn’t judge the excesses, only the switch to normalcy.

“We fell in love.” The blade of those words cut through the dullness of the meds, and snot and tears flooded my face.

“No,” Margie said. “You stop right now.”

I tried to tell her I couldn’t, but I was beyond speaking, beyond using my mouth for anything but breathing thick cry gunk. I could barely breathe without croaking—how could I speak a whole sentence? “I couldn’t have hurt him.”

“Fuck.” Margie had always been impatient with outbursts, yet she always knew what to do about them. She swung her chair to my side of the table as if she was flinging it in a bar fight and sat next to me, putting her arm over my shoulder. I fell into her. She said nothing and stroked my hair.

“He went away, and I couldn’t keep it together,” I croaked. “I have a hard time without sex. I need it. But he understands me. We worked on ways to make it work. Why would I stab him?”

“He’s not saying. Is it possible he came after you, and you stabbed him in self-defense? Maybe he surprised you at the stables?”

“I don’t remember. I swear I don’t. What I was even doing there? I haven’t been to Branwyn in forever.”

“You have a chipped molar. Do you remember when that happened?” she asked.

“No.”

“The exam showed nerve damage in your wrist. Did he ever grab you there?”

I shook my head as if I was emptying change out of the bottom of a piggy bank. Nerve damage to the wrist could be caused by an improper knotting, but Deacon would never, ever make that mistake, and I would have called it out if I’d felt a tingling.

“Margie, I’m so confused. It’s like my brain isn’t working right. I have to see him. I have to talk to him.” I didn’t know how I’d calmed enough to make sentences, but I had. I wiped my nose and smeared my tears over my eyelids with the backs of my hands.

“That’s the least of your worries,” she said. “You have to get released first. Your therapist has seventy-two hours to determine if you’re a danger to yourself or others. So no more lunging over the desk to kill the good doctor. If you do get out, you’ll get taken in for questioning or arrested, depending on what the DA feels he has and, to be honest, whatever Dad decides he wants to do. He’s got every judge in L.A. in his pocket, but the media loves rich girls and violence. If you walk, it’ll look like we’ve gotten away with attempted murder. And just so you know, we’ve got some problems at home.”

“What?”

“Jonathan’s girlfriend disappeared from a party at Sheila’s last night. His car’s gone.”

“He had a girlfriend?” I tapped my fingers against my thumb, counting. When did my baby brother turn sixteen? How long had I been high on flake and fucking? Shit, he was old enough to drive?

“Theresa’s friend Rachel.”

Theresa was my sister, and Rachel was, indeed, her friend. She hung around a lot. I’d never given her a thought.

As if reading my mind, Margie continued. “I didn’t know about her and Jon either. So that’s why I’m here and not Quentin.”

“I just want to talk to Deacon.”

“I know. But maybe what you want isn’t what you need.” She took my hand. “When we’re done here, you’re having your orientation meeting with the hospital admin. Be nice. Be good. Okay?”

“Will being nice get me out?”

“It’ll increase the odds.”

“Then I’m all over it.”

The administrator smiled. She seemed genuine enough, but she was probably genuine with everyone, which made the whole act as fake as shit. Her brown hair was straight, but at the ends, I could see it was naturally curly. A little patch of eyebrow had begun to grow at the top of her nose. She wore a little wreath with a bell hanging from it on her lapel.

“I’m Doctor Frances Ramone, but you can just call me Frances.”

Apparently, we were all on a first-name basis in Westonwood.

“You can call me Miss Drazen.”

My joke had no effect on her that I could see. Being blind with a headache, who knew what was happening in my peripheral vision. On the other side of the glass walls, people played checkers and some asshole grumbled in a wheelchair. More windows decoratively barred against escape. Lightweight plastic chairs, great for throwing but not hurting. A television permanently set to beautiful scenes of nature, flowers, butterflies. And that was how rich kids disappeared into Westonwood. No TV. No internet. No phone.

“That’s fine, Miss—”

“I was kidding. Fiona’s fine.”

“Are you okay, Fiona?”

Was I okay? What kind of question was that?

“I have a headache, and I’m a little grouchy, if you don’t mind.”

“Your medication’s worn off.”

Was her smile smug? Or just a smile?

“I need you to hear this and retain it, so I preferred you have all your faculties. Okay?” she said.

“Okay.”

“You’re here so we can determine if you’re fit to be questioned for attempted murder, and if you had your faculties about you when you committed the act.”

Though my crying was silent and controlled, Frances flipped me a tissue. I dabbed my eyes.

“Allegedly,” I said.

“Allegedly. You have a lawyer you can discuss this with further.”

“Yes.”

She put a piece of paper in front of me. There was a list on it with little boxes to the left of each item, and she ticked them off as she spoke. “We don’t allow you to use the phones or fax except to talk to lawyers. Even family calls come through us. We have some rules here, and the rules are tailored specifically for you. Everyone’s comfort here is important. You will be provided everything you need from medicine to meals. You are not allowed any of your own. This is to prevent substance abuse. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

She ticked one of the boxes with her pen. I pressed my legs together and jammed my hands between my knees. I was so tense. I wanted to be in the common room having a goddamn conversation with the backgammon set.

“You will have two sessions per day with Doctor Chapman. He’s agreed to keep seeing you, despite your attack this morning.”

I nodded. I didn’t like what I’d done. Not the attack on Deacon or Dr. Chapman. It wasn’t me.

“Violence won’t fly a second time. We don’t like to use our solitary rooms, but we will if we think you’re a danger to yourself or others. You’re a compulsory patient, but we can send you to a state facility.”

I looked her in the eye for the first time. Their color was indeterminate, somewhere between light brown and blue and green. She held my gaze.

“Is that what you told my father?” I considered telling her I’d go wherever my father wanted me, and if he wanted me in Westonwood, then that was where I’d stay. You didn’t cross Daddy. Period.