I glance at the clock on my dash, the numbers glowing against the faded light of streetlamps filtering into the cab. It’s about dinnertime in California. Aly should be settling in at her new long-term-care facility. I’m sure the stress of the past week, the disruption to her routine, the change in her environment have been difficult for her.
“She’s gone. The staff went into her room to get her for dinner, and she was unresponsive. She?—”
My heart slams in my chest. “She what?”
“She took her life,” he says, the words barely audible above the rushing of blood through my ears.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I yell. “How? How the fuck does a gravely ill, fragile fucking person on suicide watch complete that fucking task?”
“She left a letter for you.”
“Fuck that, I don’t want it.”
“Hold on,” Ryan says, the sounds of papers shifting and the squeak of an office chair filter through the phone.
“After everything I did, everything we worked for to keep her safe, out of prison, to get her the help she needed, she fucking killed herself. She fucking… What? Took the easy way out?” Nothing about this is easy.
He forges ahead, reading her final words to me, “‘I’m so sorry. Not being in my right mind at the time is no excuse for what I did. I took the life we created. Killed our baby. I can’t live with myself. I can’t live with what I did to us. Please, Miles, if you ever loved me, let me go. Just let me go.’”
“Ryan—”
“She was sick, Miles. Her judgment was so warped that there was no sense of reality. So broken that she couldn’t process right from wrong, didn’t get the consequences of her actions.”
“That’s why I fought so hard. That’s why I did everything I could to absolutely do right by her, to make sure she was safe, that she got treatment instead of just being locked away for the rest of her life—or worse, released back into the world where she could hurt someone again. And, I still failed. Not even my best was good enough.”
“I assure you, there will be a full investigation into this. We will find where the breakdown was, and the responsible person will be held accountable.” Conviction rings through Ryan’s words.
His speech is lovely. Heartfelt and award-winning. But the fact is, it doesn’t even matter.
What was it I said to Jason about this? That I thought there was some lesson I was supposed to learn from this? I don’t see a lesson. There is nothing to indicate that education, advancement, understanding, or adaptation is happening in any way from this shit.
The only thing getting hammered into me—yet again—is that I don’t deserve the privilege of caring for others.
My heart burst with pride the day I held my daughter in my arms, thrilled that she had come a little early, as eager to meet me as I was to meet her before my team’s next mission launched.
My heart seized when the coppery scent of blood slapped me into a new reality as I stepped through the door to find Aly catatonic, clutching a bloody butcher knife.
My heart was ripped to shreds when, at the end of the blood trail, I saw my baby girl, lifeless in her bassinet.
Now, all that’s left is anger.
“I’ve got to go, Ryan. Thank you for everything you’ve done to try and help. I appreciate it. I’m sure Aly’s family appreciates it.”
“I’ll let you know what they uncover. Miles, I’m so sorry.” And he is. It’s evident, but I just can’t do this anymore.
“Thanks. I’ll talk to you later.” I put my truck in gear and slam on the gas, throwing my phone across the cab. It sails through the open window, bouncing before the wheels of a semi send it to its grave.
I drive straight to my apartment. Leaving my bag in the truck, I go inside. It’s dark, and the air is stale. I don’t bother with any lights. I go directly to my liquor cabinet and turn a full bottle of whiskey upright. The burn is a welcome punishment as I swallow down gulp after gulp.
By the time the whiskey is nothing but a dribble of backwash in the bottom of the bottle, my heart is finally numb.
TWENTY-THREE
Chloe
Sunlight slashes bright across my eyes. But it’s the tongue on my neck that really pulls me from sleep. Unfortunately, the tongue is attached to seventy pounds of hunting dog instead of the man I fell asleep waiting for. I lift one hand, shielding my eyes until I can adjust to the light intrusion, and wrap the other around Bronson’s head. Sometimes, it’s easier to stop the assault by pulling him in closer than by pushing him away.
The scrape of a spoon against a bowl and the slurp of milk are clear indicators that I’m not alone.
