Fraser's office. With my mother's fondness for anti-anxiety drugs, it was beneficial to have a psychiatrist on the family payroll. Growing up, we'd all been told that if we ever felt the need for therapy, Dr. Fraser was our only option. I'd only gone twice, forced there after an incident my freshman year that had resulted in expulsion from one of the city's most prestigious private schools. She wasn't my favorite person in the world, but as far as shrinks went, she knew her shit. As always, when the name Westmore was given, other appointments were pushed back and I was sent right in. “It's not about me,” I said as I sat down. Dr. Fraser nodded, not put off by my abrupt statement or lack of greeting. She didn't look much different than she had the last time I'd seen her. A little more gray in her dark hair and a few more wrinkles around her eyes, but that was about it. “There's this girl – woman, actually – and when she was a kid, she saw her parents and sister murdered.” Dr.
