Chapter 7

The therapist's office was in a quiet redbrick townhouse on Beacon Hill.

Thick, soundproof windows shut out the bustle of Boston in late autumn.

Ethan and I sat at opposite ends of a long gray linen sofa, with enough space for another person between us.

Our white-haired therapist, Ms. Davis, closed the assessment form in her hands and looked at us kindly. "Who would like to start?"

Ethan immediately sat up straighter.

He'd clearly prepared. He spoke a little quickly, with the same precision and urgency he brought to important clients at the firm.

"I'll go first."

He took a…