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with tears. I picked up the cup of tea and raised it to my lips.
    The hot liquid slid from my throat to my stomach, and its calming effect was immediate. My thoughts felt clearer. And weirdly enough, I felt more in control of the situation. He knows who I am now, even if I don’t know the first thing about him.
    My revelation seemed to have shaken him. Vincent’s either struggling to hold himself together , I thought, or to hold something back . I decided to take advantage of this apparent moment of weakness to figure something out. “Vincent, if you’re in such a . . . dangerous situation, why in the world would you try to be friends with me?”
    â€œI told you, Kate, I had seen you around the neighborhood”—he weighed his words carefully—“and you seemed like someone I would want to know. It was probably a bad idea. But I obviously wasn’t thinking.”
    As he spoke, his voice turned from warm to icicle cold. I couldn’t tell if he was angry with himself for getting me involved in whatever mess he was in—or with me for bringing it up. It didn’t matter. The effect of his sudden frostiness was the same: I shuddered, feeling like someone had walked over my grave. “I’m ready to go,” I said, standing suddenly.
    He rose to his feet and nodded. “Yes, I’ll take you home.”
    â€œNo, that’s okay. I know the way. I’d . . . rather you not.” The words came from the rational part of me. The part that was urging me to get out of the house as fast as possible. But another part of me regretted it as soon as I spoke them.
    â€œAs you wish,” he said, and leading me back through the grand entrance hall, he opened the door to the courtyard.
    â€œAre you sure you’ll be all right?” he insisted as he blocked the doorway, waiting for an answer before he would let me leave. I ducked under his arm to squeeze by, passing inches from his skin.
    My mistake was inhaling as I did. He smelled like oak and grass and wood fires. He smelled like memories. Like years and years of memories.
    â€œYou look weak again.” His hard shell cracked open just enough to show a glimpse of concern.
    â€œI’m fine,” I replied, attempting to sound sure of myself, and then seeing him standing there, calm and composed, I rephrased my answer. “I’m fine, but you shouldn’t be. You just lost a friend in a horrible accident and you’re standing there like nothing happened. I don’t care who you are or what you’ve done to make you run away like that. But for it not to affect you . . . you’ve got to be seriously messed up.”
    A surge of emotion crossed Vincent’s dark face. He looked upset. Well, good.
    â€œI don’t understand you. And I don’t want to.” My eyes narrowed in disgust. “I hope I never see you again,” I said, and began walking toward the gate.
    I felt a strong hand grip my arm, and whipped my head around to see that Vincent stood inches behind me. He leaned over until his mouth was next to my ear. “Things aren’t always as they appear, Kate,” he whispered, and carefully released my arm.
    I ran toward the front gate, which was already swinging open to let me through. Once I was outside, it began to close. A loud crash that sounded like porcelain being smashed against marble came from somewhere inside the house.
    I stood motionless, looking back at the massive metal gates. My intuition told me that I had done something wrong. That I had misjudged Vincent’s character. But all signs pointed to the fact that he was some sort of criminal. And from the smashing sounds still emanating from the house, maybe even a violent one. I shook my head, wondering how I could have lost my capacity for reason just because of a handsome face.

Chapter Nine
    OVER THE NEXT FEW WEEKS, I COULDN’T STOP replaying the events of that day in my