“She’s everywhere,” she whispers, voice cracking. “I keep hearing her. Her footsteps walking away from the scene. And her laugh…” She shudders, breaths quick and uneven. “I neverheard her do that before. Now I can’t block it out. It’s like she’s mocking me for not knowing.”
Her breaths waver with every word.
“Putting it together in the café… Suddenly, I was eight-years-old again and hiding, trying to not make a sound. To not be seen. And now I’m wondering if I could have stopped her if I recognized it was her. She wouldn’t have shot a kid.”
I cup her face, and her frantic eyes connect with mine. “Don’t do that. Don’t play the what-if game. You were a kid, sweetheart. You did what you had to do to survive that awful day. That’s not a weakness. That’s strength.”
She laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “Every time I build myself up to get out of her shadow, I end up falling apart.”
“Then fall apart,” I whisper. “Let it all out. You don’t have to keep it together for me. I can hold the weight, baby.”
She sighs, shaking her head. “I had so many theories, but I never thought it was her. I don’t know how to move forward now that I know it was.”
A silent tear rolls down her cheek.
“You take it one day at a time. You keep talking to me, keep letting me in. And let me be here for you.”
Her voice quiets. “The nightmares felt like a sign to stay quiet. So many years passed by that I just didn’t see the point of coming forward. There’s no statute of limitations for murder. What if she’s here because she thinks I’m gonna talk?”
“It’s been thirteen years, Erin. She left when you were eight. How would she know where to find you, especially if you changed your name?” I ask her.
“What if she’s always known where I was?” I ask. “I told you I thought what happened to my dad was planned. What if she arranged everything—the cover up, what lies to tell, what foster home I went to?”
“It’s possible,” I say, “but if that were true, whynow?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore.”
“Do you know how I feel about you?” I ask her.
Some of the worry lining her eyes fades. “I do,” she says, her lips lifting a fraction.
“Then that’s not nothing.” I kiss the tip of her nose.
“How did I find you?”
“You walked into me at a bar.”
She snickers. “I thought you said it was your fault.”
“Best fault ever.” I wink. “Do you want to stay here tonight? Or we can go home.”
“Can we stay for a little while? It’s nice here.”
I lie back, gently tugging her down with me. “We can stay here as long as you like.”
“There’s a lot more that we should talk about,” she says in a quiet voice.
“Not tonight, sweetheart. You need to sleep.”
After a moment or two, another tear rolls down her cheek. Her eyes pinch together, and I know she’s finally going through the motions of the day as her body trembles in my arms.
“You’re okay, Bookworm. I’m right here.”
She shuffles closer.
I wrap my arm around her waist and hold her through every sob until her breathing slows and sleep finally consumes her.
I lie there, her hand clutched in mine, fueled with a need to protect her from her past.
