By the time I reach my parents’ house, she pulls in two minutes after. My mom stands outside, looking at Nessa’s car. I put my hand out and say, “I got this, mom.”
Beckett and I get in, and Nessa pulls away from the curb before the doors are fully shut. She's driving with one hand. The other is moving to her face every few seconds, wiping at her cheeks with the back of her hands like she's angry at herself for the tears.
I don't say anything yet. I watch the road and let her drive. She's not heading toward Cody's. As far as I can tell, she's not heading anywhere specific.
"What happened?" I ask.
She glances in the rearview mirror. Her eyes find Beckett and stay there for a second.
"Beckett's got you, too," I say. "He's on our side."
She looks at the road. A beat passes.
"Silas?" she asks.
I stare at her.
She's asking what the roster looks like before she decides what to put down.
"It's best if we keep him out of it," I say.
She nods once.
"What happened?" I ask again. "Why are you crying like this?"
She's quiet for long enough that I think she might not answer.
"Cody… he told me…"
She doesn’t finish her sentence, and as the trees pass by, I don’t think she will.
"What did he tell you?"
She looks at me and wipes her face.
"That he never gave a fuck about me." She says it flat. "That it was always to get back at you."
I don't say anything.
"The whole time." She laughs, but it's not a laugh. It's the sound that comes out when the alternative is something worse. "The whole time it was about you."
The tears are gone. That knowledge has hollowed her out, even when I told her nearly every day that he was using her.
Beckett leans forward from the back seat and holds out his phone.
"Do you know where this place is?" He holds the screen up so she can see it.
Her eyes go to the image and flare open. Not the flinch of someone seeing something upsetting. The recognition of someone who knows exactly what they're looking at.
"When was that?" she says.
"Tonight," Beckett says. "Do you know where it is?"
The sound she makes is high and sharp, filling the car. Then she presses down on the accelerator, and the car accelerates.
I put my hand on the dashboard to catch myself. "Nessa," I warn, looking forward at the open road.
She's gripping the wheel with both hands now, knuckles pale, jaw tight, eyes wet again but differently — not the sad kind, the furious kind, the kind that has somewhere to go.
