Then a little red circle with a one in the middle appears above Cash’s envelope icon.
He has a new email.
Okay, so here’s the deal. I know I shouldn’t press that icon and read his mail. For one thing, it’s private. For another thing, it might be illegal. And finally, I figure I’ve crossed enough lines already by confiscating his phone and changing the security settings.
But—there’s always abut, isn’t there?—what if it’s important? What if it’s something to do with his house or his VA insurance, or I don’t know…what if it’s somethingimportant?
Cash doesn’t have anyone but me and Luc. And with Luc in jail, that leaves me to see to his affairs while he’s incapacitated, right?Right?
Before I can think too long about my actions, I open the email. The minute I see who the sender is, my heart starts racing. As I read, the words fill up my chest until I’m unable to breathe.
From:Dr. Sean Stevens, Neurology, Johns Hopkins
To:Cassius Armstrong
Subject:In regard to my email from yesterday
Dear Sergeant Armstrong,
I wanted to write and express my deepest sympathy for your diagnosis and apologize that the news I sent yesterday wasn’t more promising. I’ve always been a great believer in the power of science, and new breakthroughs are happening as we speak. Even an old pragmatist like myself knows there’s always reason to hope.
Thank you for allowing me to review your case. I’m terribly sorry I couldn’t be of more help.
Kind regards,
Dr. Sean Stevens, MS, MRCS, ABNS
I stare at the email until the words have burned out my retinas and branded themselves into my brain. What is that noise? That low, pitiful sound?
Oh. Yeah. It’s me.
If someone had plunged a knife into my chest, it wouldn’t hurt nearly as much as the futility and finality the doctor’s words. All the hope I’ve been keeping locked up tight in the storehouse of my heart turns combustible and explodes outward. Hot tears gather in my eyes and blur the phone’s screen.
It’s done. It’s over. Cash is doomed to a life of unspeakable pain. And it’ll be anyone’s guess if that does him in before the booze.
I let my head fall back, strangling the sobs in the back of my throat and—
Wait.
The email referenced a previous message. What didthatsay? Maybe there’s some explanation in there. Some clue why there’s nothing to be done.
Figuring I’ve already committed the cardinal sin of snooping through his private correspondence once, I don’t hesitate to click on his email account again and go searching through his previous messages. When I don’t find what I’m looking for, I open his trash can and then junk email folder, but…nothing.
Dang it!
He deleted it. Probably, I realize with no small measure of remorse, because it was so disheartening he never wanted to read it again.
I did that myself once. His Dear Jane letter went into the fire pit in Aunt Bea’s backyard, along with my prom dress. Sometimes getting rid of the thing that hurts you, destroying it entirely, is the only way you know how to deal.
Slumping dejectedly, I stare out the window again. The world outside looks gray and bleak. It matches the interior of my heart.
And then a new thought occurs, and I straighten.
He received the neurosurgeon’s email yesterday, presumably before Aunt Bea’s New Year’s Eve party. Wasthatwhy he was acting out? Why he took Scarlet home? To try to turn me off him for good because that email said there was no hope?
Chapter Sixty-nine
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