I close my eyes to try and keep me from spiraling.
Dr. Ganacha—the therapist they've had coming to see me twice a day—says I need to stop that.
The "what ifs." The self-blame.
She says what happened wasn't my fault, that Virgil made his choices and I'm not responsible for the evil that lives inside other people.
I know she's right.
I know it in my head, anyway.
My heart is taking longer to catch up.
A soft knock on the door makes me open my eyes.
Garrett jerks awake instantly, his hand going to his hip where his gun would be if he were wearing it.
When he sees it's just Leah pushing through the door with a tray, he relaxes. Barely.
"Morning." Leah's voice is quiet, careful. She's been like that since I woke up after the surgery—soft around the edges, like she's afraid I might shatter if she speaks too loud. "Brought you some ice chips. And jello, if you think you can handle it."
"Thanks." My voice comes out hoarse, scratchy. Three days of crying will do that.
Leah sets the tray on the rolling table and busies herself checking my IV, my monitors, the bandages on my wrists where the zip ties cut into my skin.
Her movements are efficient, professional, but I catch the way her fingers linger.
The way she smooths my blanket even though it doesn't need smoothing.
She's trying.
After everything—the years of addiction, the lies, the theft—she's trying.
"Your vitals look good," she says, not quite meeting my eyes. "Blood pressure's stabilizing. Baby's heartbeat is strong."
"Waylon," I say without thinking.
She pauses. "What?"
"The baby. We're—" I glance at Garrett, who's watching me with an unreadable expression. "We're thinking of calling him Waylon. If it's a boy."
Something flickers across Leah's face.
Something soft and sad and maybe, just maybe, a little bit hopeful.
"That's a good name," she says quietly. "Strong."
Then she's gone, slipping out the door before I can say anything else, and I'm left staring at the space where she was.
"She's coming around." Garrett's voice is rough with sleep. He scrubs a hand over his face, wincing at the stubble. "Give her time."
"I don't deserve her forgiveness."
"Maybe not." He reaches out and takes my hand, his calloused fingers wrapping around mine. "But she's gonna give it anyway. That's who Leah is."
I want to believe him.
I want to believe that I haven't destroyed every good thing in my life, that there's still a path forward, that the people I've hurt can somehow find it in their hearts to let me back in.
