The memory makes my stomach twist, a hot wave of shame washing over my skin. I wasn’t describing Wyatt. I was describing myself.
I was the one holding onto a ghost. I was the one trying to pay off the debt of letting Jesse die by hiding behind my headset, standing guard over his grave without ever risking the pain of another real loss. I kept the city at arm’s length, hiding behind a desk where I could save people without ever having to look them in the eye, without ever having to risk a single thing of my own. A sterile, padded room where no one could touch me, where I could nurse my guilt in peace.
I reach into my coat pocket, my fingers brushing against the folded piece of paper I’ve carried since Eleanor handed it to me.
I pull it out, the paper worn and soft at the edges, the white creases starting to tear from the constant folding and unfolding. The graphite pencil lines are smudged, but the blocky, left-handed writing is still clear.
”But you didn’t fail me, Bells. I made my choice, and it was never yours to carry.”
I stare at the line, my thumb tracing the blocky letters of my name.
I made my choice.
For six weeks, I carried his death like an assignment. I believed that because I was the counselor, because I was the one who saved strangers, I should have seen the signs. I believed that my love wasn’t enough, that my presence was a curse that eventually ruined everyone who stayed close.
I carried the guilt of his choice like a lead weight around my neck, letting it drag me down the mountain, letting it tell me that the only way to keep Wyatt safe was to leave him.
But Jesse didn’t leave me the shelter to buy my way out. He didn’t leave me Atlas to watch me run.
”I left you Atlas because you need a dog big enough to hold the rope for you. He knows how to keep you anchored when your mind starts telling you it’s safer to go numb. And I willed you my half of this place because I knew you’d never stay for yourself, but you might stay for Wyatt.”
I look at the empty passenger seat. Atlas isn’t there because he’s back at the clinic, his belly bandaged, his recovery holding because Wyatt’s hands didn’t shake when the crisis came. Wyatt didn’t run when Atlas went down. He stayed on his knees in the blood and the betadine, fighting for the last piece of Jesse we had left, even when he was terrified of the loss.
And he wanted me to stay.
Not for the land. Not for the easement.
”Stay.”
He stood in that hallway, exhausted, his hands empty. He let me see the raw, bleeding space behind his walls. And instead of standing there to catch him, I weaponized his grief and walked out the door.
If I drive to Denver now, Wyatt will stand in that town hall alone. He’ll fight to block the road variance, and he’ll announce the nonprofit we built, but he’ll do it alone.
And I’ll be safe in my apartment, staring at the beige walls, listening to the breathing of strangers, completely untouched.
And completely ruined.
A sudden, sharp gust of wind hits the side of the SUV, rocking the heavy frame on its suspension. I look up through the windshield. The clouds over the peak have dropped, a heavy, slate-grey curtain of snow spilling down the slopes of the pass, swallowing the switchbacks in a wall of white. The temperature gauge on the dashboard drops two degrees in a single jump.
Another storm is coming.
My breath is a white mist in the cold cab. I reach out, my fingers closing around the gear shift.
I don’t look at the interstate sign ahead. I don’t look at the miles counting down to Denver. I cut the wheel hard to the left, the tires crunching in the gravel of the turnout as I swing the SUV around in a wide, sweeping arc.
The headlights catch the white road heading back toward the canyon, the yellow warning sign for the pass glowing in the high beams.
I press my foot down on the gas. The engine rumbles, the tires gripping the asphalt as I head back into the gorge. I drive straight into the teeth of the wind, toward the second hearing, toward the mountain, toward the man who’s waiting in the dark.
EIGHTEEN
The Second Hearing
WYATT
The community hallsmells of damp wool, industrial floor wax, and the dry, burnt heat of the baseboard radiators. Outside, the blizzard is a solid wall of white. The wind rattles the heavy oak storm windows of the municipal building, throwing dry, granular snow against the glass in sharp, sporadic bursts.
I stand at the back of the room, my shoulder pressed against the pine paneling, my hands shoved deep into the pockets of my canvas coat. My chest is a flat, frozen shelf. The fortress is back up, the stones cemented in place with the fury of a man who let himself believe and paid the price before the sun could clear the ridge.
