I watched him answer, watched him turn his back to me, and knew with crushing certainty what was happening. He’d heard enough. Too much.
And he was pulling away, just like I’d been terrified he would.
The lime-green wall blurred in front of me as I realized what a naive, stupid dream it had been to think this might’ve been different with him.
Just like Jason. Just like the Hendersons. Just like everyone who’d ever gotten close enough to see the real me.
The worst part wasn’t losing him. The worst part was that I’dbeen so goddamn close to believing that this time, maybe the ending would be different.
That we were inevitable.
Now I knew the truth. The only thing inevitable about me was the leaving.
25
FAITH
The drive back to my house stretched like a funeral procession. Silent. Suffocating. Every few seconds, I caught myself glancing at Ryker’s profile, willing him to say something. Anything would be better than this arctic freeze-out.
His hands gripped the steering wheel like it had personally offended him, and the muscle in his jaw kept twitching.Perfect. He was doing the strong, silent brooding thing now.
I couldn’t take it anymore.
“So, this is it? We don’t talk anymore?”
“Faith …”
“What was that phone call?” The one that had put a suspicious, abrupt halt to the rest of our painting session. The one he’d taken in the hallway, voice low, coming back with that look on his face and said he needed to go. “You won’t even tell me what it was about?”
It was just an excuse to get away from me. From my damage. From the girl who was glad when people died.
Make up your mind, Faith. Push him away or pull him close.
He turned onto my street, his blinker clicking like a countdown timer. Our time was running out, and somehow, that made everything worse. I didn’t want him to drop me off and leavethings hanging like this. But I also had this sick urge to push him so far away, he’d never find his way back.
At least then I’d know where we stood.
“The news broke,” he said finally.
I blinked. “What news?”
“About Daniel’s death. A major news organization ran the story.”
My stomach dropped. “That’s … bad?”
“They published your name.”
Oh shit.
The words hit like an avalanche, burying me under the weight of what that meant.
I’d forever be known as Faith Morrison: The Girl Who Killed a Man. Not the girl who’d survived the death of her parents, followed by challenging foster homes. Not the woman who’d built a safe haven for aged-out foster kids. Just a killer. My worst fear, gift-wrapped and delivered.
How terrible of you to think of howyou’llbe remembered when you must have taken that man’s life.
“So, reporters might start crawling out of the woodwork, looking for a juicy story,” he continued, pulling into my driveway.
At least, by the looks of it, they hadn’t parked outside my house. Yet. “And that’s bad for my defense?” I pressed.
