"The same way anyone does. Money and desperation."
He doesn't respond immediately, just watches me with those too perceptive eyes. I wonder what he sees when he looks at me. Just another spoiled celebrity? A paycheck? A responsibility?
"You don't fit the profile," he says finally.
"What profile is that?"
"Celebrity client. High maintenance. Entitled. Difficult."
I laugh, and it feels strange in my throat. When was the last time I actually laughed? Weeks? Months?
"Give it time, Mr. McKenna. I'm sure I'll live down to your expectations eventually."
"Finn," he says.
"What?"
"If we're going to be living in close quarters for the foreseeable future, you might as well call me Finn."
"Alright, Finn." His name feels strangely intimate on my tongue. "Then I'm Nova."
"I know who you are."
"Do you?" I challenge. "Or do you know what the tabloids say I am?"
Something shifts in his expression. "I read your file. Three albums, two world tours, one Oscar nomination. America's sweetheart turned pop sensation turned serious actress. Twenty eight years old. No known substance abuse issues. No serious relationships in the public record."
"That's my resume, not who I am."
"Then who are you, Ms. Wilde?" The way he says my name sends an unexpected shiver down my spine.
Who am I? It's been so long since anyone asked me that question. So long since I've had an answer that wasn't carefully crafted by a publicist.
"I'm just a girl from Seattle who could sing," I say finally. "Everything else happened so fast I barely remember it."
"You were sixteen when you were discovered."
"Fifteen, actually. Sixteen when the first single came out."
"That's young."
"It is." I look out the window at the clouds below us. White and peaceful and so far removed from the chaos of my life. "Sometimes I feel like I'm still fifteen, like the last thirteen years have happened to someone else and I've just been watching."
"That's called dissociation," he says, surprising me. "It's a common response to trauma or overwhelming stress."
"Are you a psychologist as well as a security expert?"
"No. But I've seen enough combat to recognize the signs."
Combat.What has this man seen? What has he done? The file I read was heavily redacted, full of black lines and missing pages. Ten years in the CIA, then private security work for the kind of people who don't appear in public databases.
"Is that why you live in the middle of nowhere?" I ask. "Dissociation?"
His eyes harden slightly. "I live there because it's where I'm from. My family's been in Grizzly Ridge for four generations."
"Sorry," I say quickly. "I didn't mean to pry."
"Yes, you did." But there's no anger in his voice. "It's fine. Where I live is going to be your business for a while, since that's where I'm taking you."
