OH MY GOD!
I’m dead. There is a hand over my mouth, my chest feels like a grenade just exploded, and a large arm wrapped around my waist has my back pinned to a solid body. My cancer must be pissed off it’s not going to get the chance to steal my life.
“Why are you in here?” The whisper at my ear is the Theodore Reed from my first day on Tybee Island. It’s the spawn of revenge and murder. This embrace holds no passion and even less of a promise that my lungs will ever receive oxygen again.
The calloused paw over my mouth prevents me from answering as my tears spring free. He’s going to kill me. My instincts were right.
“Are you going to scream?” The edge to his voice makes my knees tremble.
I shake my head.
His hand slides from my mouth. “Did you open it?”
I swallow back wave after wave of fear as he keeps my back pinned to his chest. “No,” I whisper, unable to find my true voice. “It’s locked.”
“You’re lying.”
“Everything is a lie.” My voice of reason is so much slower than my vocal impulsiveness.
“Open it.”
“I don’t have the—”
“OPEN THE FUCKING LOCK!”
Normal people who live sheltered lives would convince themselves that they could never die at the hands of a lover. I’ve known men who have killed their wives, mothers of theirchildren, because they opened the wrong drawer in a wardrobe or arrived home from the supermarket thirty minutes too early. I hold no illusions that Theodore Reed won’t kill me.
I open my fisted hand to reveal the pick I used. His body stiffens against mine, like in spite of the truth he knew, the confirmation that I did in fact invade his privacy still sends a small wave of anger—maybe even disappointment—coursing through his body. He loosens his hold on me.
I step forward and unlock the trunk, but I don’t open it.
Remorse. It’s all I feel right now. My journey to find the best part of my soul and live out that life for as long as I have left has failed. I am a thief. Theo was right. Curiosity will kill the cat.
I can’t bring myself to turn and look at him. The last memory I have of his face was the grin of appreciation for my naked body standing in front of him. It held something innocent, beautiful, and worth holding on to forever. That’s the only memory I need.
“Open it.”
I do. It’s not worth my effort to look shocked at the contents. He knows I know.
Easing my hand over the edge, waiting to see if he’ll stop me, I reach for the handgun. Why isn’t he stopping me? He doesn’t move, not one inch. Maybe he’s already holding a gun to my head and I just haven’t turned to see it.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, wrapping my hand around the gun. I’ve never held a gun. My father never wanted me to bethatthief. I close my eyes, letting my palm acclimate to the cold metal grip. “I shouldn’t have crossed that line.” My eyes pinch tight, wringing more tears out as I lift the gun. “I’ve loved every minute of our lie.” My finger curls around the trigger as the blunt edge of the muzzle kisses my temple.
Every bad thing I’ve ever done, every failure, every moment of grief, every word of my terminal cancer diagnosis and stolenfuture hits me like a torrent of negativity that pulls me under, numbing my senses.
Fuck you, cancer.
I pull the trigger.
Nothing.
“Jesus fucking Christ!” He rips the gun from my hand.
My back collides with the wall as my steps falter. I blink through my tears that blur Theo’s face marred with utter horror—wild eyes, mouth agape. He shakes me, hands gripping my arms to the point of pain.
Pain.
I feel it in unforgiving waves.
