30. Ani
Ani
I don’t say much on the drive to the evaluation office. Boone offered to come inside with me, but I said no. I wanted to prove to myself that I can do this alone.
Now I’m sitting on a low, vinyl-cushioned bench in a quiet lobby. My fingers are curled tight in the hem of my long-sleeve shirt. It’s comfortable but stylish enough to be presentable.
The receptionist calls my name. I stand on shaky legs.
The psychologist isn’t what I expected. She’s younger than I imagined.
Black curly hair pulled into a low bun, kind eyes behind dark frames.
She introduces herself—Dr. Delaney—and offers a smile that feels genuine.
But that’s how it starts, isn’t it? They get you comfortable. Get you to talk. Then twist it.
I know Boone swears this woman can be trusted. She’s not on my father’s payroll and she comes with enough recommendations from Boone’s network that we know she can’t be bought. But still…I’m worried.
I sit up straight, hands folded in my lap. I keep my ankles crossed. I know the signs they’ll look for—shaking hands, nervous fidgeting, vacant stares. I do all of those things sometimes, but I’ve learned how to disguise them.
I’m not crazy. I just like things a certain way and the world gets too loud when I feel out of control. But I am not crazy.
She begins with some simple questions. She asks about my background, my childhood, my medical history. I answer each one slowly and carefully. She takes some notes and moves on to the next question.
Eventually, she asks about my current situation.
“Can you tell me why your family believes you may be experiencing a psychological break?”
Because I stopped obeying. Because I left. Because for the first time in my life, I made a choice that didn’t serve them. But I don’t feel like I can say that.
“They believe I was under too much pressure,” I say instead. “That I panicked.”
“And did you?”
I hesitate. “Yes. But not in the way they mean. I panicked because I felt trapped. I wasn’t having delusions. I wasn’t hallucinating. I didn’t forget who I was. I just…realized I didn’t want the life they were forcing on me.”
She nods. Jots something down. “And the fire at the motel?”
My throat tightens. “I had nothing to do with it.”
She studies me for a moment after that, like she’s measuring more than what I’m saying. Finally, she says, “I believe you.”
That should make it easier to breathe. But it doesn’t.
The rest of the evaluation is more of the same—emotional assessments, hypothetical questions, discussions about stress responses and coping mechanisms. When she asks if I have a support system, I list them without hesitation. Finn. Boone. Jonah. Mae.
By the end of the hour, I feel like I’ve been peeled completely open. But when she slides the signed statement across the table to me, I see the words printed at the bottom—“No indicators of mental impairment or incapacity”—and something in my chest unlocks.
I thank her. I try to sound composed. Then I take the document and fold it twice.
On paper, I am free.
But freedom doesn’t mean safety.
When I walk outside, the California sun is bright. I shade my eyes with one hand, searching the curb for Boone’s truck. It’s idling just up the block.
The second they see me, both doors swing open. Boone rounds the front of the truck, assessing every inch of the sidewalk for threats. Finn moves quickly toward me. I lift a hand in greeting, something tight unraveling in my chest just from the sight of them.
It takes me a second too long to realize they’re zeroed in on something or someone right behind me.
I don’t have time to turn.
A hand reaches for my wrist. I yank back on instinct. My pulse spikes. I already know who it is.
“Anoush,” he says roughly.
The sound of his voice makes my stomach churn.
Boone is there in seconds. His hand closes around Davit’s wrist with controlled precision, and peels him off me like he’s scraping something foul off his shoe. He strategically places his body between mine and the threat without hesitation.
I see the flex of his jaw before I see his eyes, and when he speaks, his tone is lethal. “Touch her again, and I'll end you.”
Finn presses in behind me, one hand braced lightly across my stomach as he pulls me back into his chest. I don’t realize I’m shaking until I’m pressed against him.
Davit lifts both hands in mock surrender, eyes flicking between the two of them with a smirk on his lips. “No need to be dramatic. I just wanted to talk.”
“Your chance to talk ended the second you put your hands on her,” Boone snaps.
“I came to support her,” Davit says, turning the weight of his stare back on me. “This is all very overwhelming. I thought maybe seeing someone from home?—”
“You’re not her home,” Finn cuts in.
Davit’s gaze sharpens, but he doesn’t argue.
Boone doesn’t blink. “Leave. Now.”
Davit tilts his head like he’s debating what to do. “This isn’t over.”
Boone takes a step forward. Davit takes one back.
I can’t breathe until he turns and walks away. He doesn’t look back.
My legs give a little, but Finn is right there. His arm wraps around my waist, steadying me before I can stumble. Boone doesn’t move until Davit rounds the corner and disappears from sight. Only then does he turn back to me.
“You okay?” he asks.
No. I’m not. I want to say yes and mean it. But my throat is tight, and I still feel like I might collapse. I nod anyway.
Boone’s eyes search mine, then he pulls me into him, holding me tightly.
“Did you get what you needed?” he asks.
“Yes,” I whisper. “I’m officially cleared. They can’t use my mental health against me anymore. We just need to get the report to CPS.”
Finn pulls me back into his arms. He presses a kiss to my temple. His breath warms my skin. I can feel the tension leaving his body.
Boone’s eyes scan the street one more time.
“Get in the truck,” he says. “We’re done here.”
Finn isn’t ready to let me go. Instead of letting me walk, he lifts me and carries me to the door. Then he climbs in right behind me and holds me tight.
As we drive away, Davit’s words echo in my mind over and over again. This isn’t over .