Today, I am too tired.
Too scared.
Too ashamed.
“I know I need to eat,” I say. “I know I need to drink water. I know I need to rest. I know all of the things I am supposed to be doing. I am a very educated person, currently on a roll with terrible decision-making.”
His mouth tightens faintly. “Yes.”
I stare at him. “Was that necessary?”
“No.”
“Did it make you feel better?”
“Marginally.”
For some reason, that almost breaks me.
A shaky laugh leaves me, and I look away before he can see the insanity behind it.
Too late. He sees everything.
“Who was she?” he asks quietly.
“Her name was Cindy Sullivan,” I answer, just as quietly, while staring into the fire. “She’s a journalist.”
I pull the blanket closer around myself.
“Or I thought she was anyway. I contacted her through her official email, and she looked like the photo. I don’t know. Maybe it was her. Maybe the photo was fake. Maybe I’m just stupid.”
“You are not stupid.”
My laugh is thin and self-deprecating. “I'm certainly not as smart as I thought I was.”
“You were frightened.”
“That is not a legitimate defense.”
“It is an explanation.”
“No, it isn’t.” My voice cracks, and I hate it. “It explains why I panicked. It does not explain why I went alone to meet a stranger in a park. It does not explain why I thought that was better than just talking to you.”
And there it is. No going back now.
His eyes do not leave my face.
I feel sick again.
“Talking to me about what?” he says, so patiently I want to scream.
I press my hand against the blanket, over my thigh, forcing it to stay there instead of moving to my stomach.
But his gaze drops anyway.
He saw it in the car.
He knows enough to know there is something. And he's not an idiot. He knows what.
