Chapter 20
Chapter
Twenty
MIA
“Ms. Lowell,” the woman with gentle eyes greets. “I’m Mrs. Everley.” She steps forward, offering her hand.
I nod without returning the gesture, shrinking inwardly—unready to face the world or my celebrity again.
But the fifty-something woman with a gray-streaked mahogany bob doesn’t rush me. She doesn’t say a thing as I sit across from her in the office, and she folds her hands together.
“Welcome.” Her voice is smoky and soft as a whisper, but there’s a quiet steel running through it. My shoulders relax.
“Thank you.”
“We’ll start with a review of your medications, any prescriptions we may need to fill,” she says, typing on her laptop.
“Is this confidential?” I ask, brows knitting.
“Absolutely. And optional, too. We want to make you feel safe and comfortable here. Whatever that may look like for you.”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. Instead of twisting my arms in my lap, I bring one up, fingering the braid. I can almost feel Maverick with me. A quiet kind of strength.
“I haven’t been on anything for the past…” I pause, eyeing her. Weighing whether I can trust her. “The past few months, and I feel fine. Even mood. Clear head.”
“Does your doctor know about these changes?”
“Not the doctor or therapist Edwin makes me go to. No.”
“And you say you’re feeling better?”
“Yes, like I can finally think for myself.”
She smiles, not cloying or fake. But like my words have hit some chord she recognizes.
“And how are your moods? Any sadness? Thoughts of self-harm.”
I shake my head, choosing my words carefully. “Before the incident, when Lone Star Security stepped in, I sometimes felt helpless. Like a hamster on a wheel. Like I have no say in my own life.”
She nods, eyes warm but cautious. “Our legal team is still reviewing the conservatorship. But from what I’ve seen, your feelings are justifiable.”
“All I wanted was a break. A stop from the touring, the performing, a moment to breathe. Especially after the shooting. If anyone had been injured on account of me…”
“Or if you’d been hurt,” she urges.
I pause, letting the words sink in. Sadness floods me, stinging the backs of my eyes. “You’re right,” I say suddenly, eyes searching hers. “You speak to me like I’m a human being—not a commodity.”
“Because you are,” she answers, expression determined. “And you have been all along.”
I nod, swallowing hard.
Fingers glide through my hair all over again. A gruff voice rumbles next to me, reassuring me—not saying goodbye.
“Dinner’s served at six. Here’s a copy of the menu.” She leans across the table, handing a laminated paper to me.
“If you need anything, don’t hesitate to call. A housekeeper comes through once a day to check on things, and we’ll also be checking in with you regularly to meet court requests and to facilitate your case.”
“I can’t thank you enough,” I whisper.
“The grounds are secure and heavily monitored, and your room has a small private patio, if you’d prefer to avoid other residents. But everyone here is very welcoming, not intrusive.”
“Other residents?” Panic grips me.
She nods, the corners of her mouth turning up. “Other high-profile women in need of assistance. Whether it’s the wife of a politician going through an abusive divorce or an actor transitioning from rehab. You’ll find many like-minded women here. People who understand, but only when you’re ready.”
“Okay.” I exhale.
“In that case, let me show you to your room. I’ll assume you can shower and go about daily activities without supervision?”
Her question startles me. “Yes.”
A single sheet of paper slides across the desk with a pen.
I eye it suspiciously. Is she really asking me to sign paperwork? I’m used to autographs, not decisions … or consent.
“There will be more where that came from, but I’ll walk you through everything later. This acknowledges that you understand the house rules and have accurately self-reported your current physical and mental states. And it also provides a waiver for medical intervention if needed.”
My hand hovers over the paper, pen suspended in mid-air.
“What do you mean, medical intervention?”
“If there’s ever an emergency. Some reason an ambulance might need to be called.”
My eyes scan the paper, seeing places to initial and then sign related to first responders, resuscitation, a life directive.
“If you’d prefer to hold off on signing that until you can consult our legal team, that’s fine, too. The intricacies of your case are such that it might make more sense.”
I smile bitterly. “You mean that I’m uncertain whether I can make these decisions at all?”
She nods. “Hopefully, that will change sooner than later.”
“Hopefully,” I repeat, scanning the sheet of paper. “What’s the date?” I ask as I initial and sign it.
“The sixteenth.”
The signature comes out too scrawled and flashy. I’m used to signing in metallic Sharpie, not a ballpoint pen. But it feels good. The brush of my hand across the paper. The sense, though fleeting, that I belong to me and me alone.
She stands rounding the desk and sweeping her hand to follow. “Let me show you to your room.”
A staff member follows behind, carrying my overnight bag. He disappears as she shows me around the secluded room with a private bathroom and modest-sized television.
Instead of feeling like they’re closing in on me, the walls are a kind of freedom that ripens with each breath, each step I take. But beneath these minor victories is a bittersweet ache only Maverick can fill.
My raven-haired cowboy bodyguard. I wonder what he’s doing now as I run my fingertips across the dining room table, mind wandering back to heat and breath.
“Your parents have requested a meeting,” Mrs. Everley says.
I brace my hands on the table, anger simmering beneath the surface. But it feels softer somehow, less powerful and dangerous in the light of day.
“When?”
“Whenever you’re ready. They would like to discuss your living arrangements and legal needs.”
I want to cross my arms and stubbornly refuse their help. After all, they abandoned me. But if it weren’t for them, I would never have worked with Lone Star or met Maverick.
“Maybe this afternoon? Before dinner?”
“Yes, after I’ve had a little time to settle in.”
Three hours later, I enter a minimally furnished conference room, eyeing my parents with a frown.
My mother’s face blanches. Dad shifts awkwardly, like he can’t decide whether he should sit or stand.
Mrs. Everley waves me to a seat, then takes the one next to me. “Ms. Lowell, I want to start by explaining that your parents requested this meeting. I’ll be mediating, and you should feel free to leave at any time.”
Anger and skepticism wrestle behind my ribs as I eye my parents. Both older than I remember. But a flicker of curiosity makes me ask, “How did you get here so quickly?”
Dad lives in Nashville and Mom in Las Vegas.
“Is it okay if we talk?” Dad addresses Mrs. Everley, shifting in his seat.
She nods.
His eyes meet mine. “You’ve been all over the news, Mia. The incident in Rhode Island, the shooting here. Your disappearance. Then, Crowe started calling…”
Mom adds, “I’ve been worried sick about you. I didn’t expect much. But a call—from you—would have been nice.”
“So would a childhood,” I answer, narrowing my eyes.
“See, Teddy?” Mom glares at Dad. “Always blaming me for everything.”
“I didn’t come here for a fight,” he hisses, frowning.
“But you saw it yourself—”
Mrs. Everley intervenes, tiny voice surprisingly loud. “I would like us to stay on topic, please. And to take our turns.”
“I’m not here to defend myself,” Dad continues. “But after the statement, I had to intervene. See what your mom and I can do to help.”
Mom’s mouth twitches. “Yes, Mia. We want to help,” she seconds, voice breaking slightly. “But only if you want it.”
“Everything I need, I already have,” I whisper, staring at the table. But when my eyes dart from one face to the other, it hits me all at once. This is not the time or place for stubborn independence. I need allies, no matter where they come from.
“Are you sure?” Mom says.
I shake my head, fingering the hem of my dress. “I don’t want to make any decisions today. But I would like to talk again. Not about the past. Not about the things that can’t be changed. I want to explore how we can work together to overturn the conservatorship.”
Dad’s eyes narrow; Mom’s mouth thins to a line.
Ultimately, none of this would have happened if they hadn’t signed away their parental rights. But we’re past the point of blame and controversy. Now, I need an army to fight Edwin Crowe, even if that requires swallowing my pride.
After the meeting, I unpack half of my overnight bag, filling the empty dresser in the bedroom. The carpet is rose-pink shag, luxurious beneath my bare feet.
I find the flannel from the cabin neatly folded. My hands slide over it, remembering. When I shrug into the impossibly soft fabric, I instantly relax. It smells of pine and strength—Maverick.
Then, I go back to the bag, locating yarn and a crochet hook. My eyes snag on something else, too—lavender blueberry tea. Maverick must’ve added it to the bag along with his shirt.
I sigh, eyeing my phone, wishing things could be different. But I can’t risk causing him more trouble. The awkward meeting with Grayson this morning said it all. He knew more than he let on.
Instead, I head for the kitchen to boil water. Then, I sit at the table, singing and crocheting.
For the first time, the silence doesn’t feel like punishment. It feels like room to breathe.