“What else do you want to do?”
“Sleep.”
She laughs again, then wrinkles her nose at me. “Afteryou sleep.”
“No clue. Whatever sounds fun. New. Different.Normal. I want to change the oil in a car and plant flowers at a house that has no more than seven rooms in it. I want to sleep in a hammock in my backyard. I want to get a dog. Maybe I’ll wash windows. Maybe I’ll go to school to learn to be a chef. Maybe I’ll watch all of the movies I missed when I get a job as thepopcorn maker at a theater. Other than continuing to give away most of my fortune, I don’t know what I want to do. I want to try everything until I find what fits. In a place I like. With my favorite people.”
“How many favorite people do you have?”
“One so far. But she’s pretty fucking iconic. It’s like having seven favorite people.”
She blinks rapidly, her smile wobbling, and she sucks in a big breath. “Oliver, I?—”
“Good news, Ms. Merriweather-Brown.” The door to the office area slams behind the deputy. “Your attorney and your sister have both assured us you won’t cause any more trouble, and your father is declining to press charges, so you’re free to go.”
He saunters between us and uses a key to open her door.
She stumbles to her feet, glancing between me and the deputy. “Margot called?”
“Your attorney called. Your sister’s here.”
She looks at me again. “What about Oliver?” she asks the deputy.
The guy looks between us, then back at the window. “She said she was only here for you.”
Shit.
Shit.
“I’m not leaving without?—”
“Daphne.” I shake my head. “Go home. I’ll be okay. I’ll see you in a week.”
“Oliver—”
“Go home,” I repeat. “Go be where you’re happy with the family you love best. The road trip’s over. We’re made. And I have some things I need to clean up when I get out of here.”
“I don’t want to?—”
“Daph. It’s okay. I’m okay. I need to know you’re okay, and here? This isn’t where you deserve to be.”
Her brown eyes blink rapidly while she studies me. “Okay. Okay. You’ve got this. You can survive on your own now.”
“One week. I’ll come find you.”
She glances at the window, and I do too.
Margot’s there.
She has her back to us, and she’s on her phone, but she’s there. That’s her hair. Her posture. One of her pantsuits.
“She loves you,” I remind Daphne. “Trust her.”
“Let’s get a move on, Ms. Merriweather-Brown,” the deputy says.
Daph looks at me once more, her eyes filling with tears that she blinks away with a forced determination that demonstrates how strong she’s had to be and how much her parents always underestimated her.
“A week. I’m holding you to that.” She presses a kiss to her fingertips, then brushes it against my knuckles, and then she leaves the jail without another backward glance.
