Me: I was protecting her.
Brody
Ask me how I know that doesn’t go over well with women.
He’s right,obviously, even though I hate to admit it.
I built this case, made these choices, submitted evidence that’s now part of an official investigation—all without asking Marnie what she wanted.
Told myself it was protection when really I just didn’t trust her to handle it.
The victory over Winters feels hollow as hell when Marnie’s not here to share it.
32
ROMAN
Marnie walkedout two days ago and she hasn’t come back.
She’s been staying at her apartment, dealing with her mom’s house, going through belongings and paperwork and all the logistics of death. We’ve texted a few times—brief, functional exchanges about nothing important. Nothing about us. Nothing about Winters or the investigation or the fact that I kept secrets from her.
Nothing about the fact that I miss her so much it physically hurts.
December 29th is tomorrow. It’s been five years since the call. Five years since 7:43 AM became the time that split my life into before and after. I thought I would have her to focus on this time to get through the pain. But apparently I fucked that up, too.
So I’ll handle this alone. The same way I’ve done for years.
Practice today isbrutal because I make it brutal.
Extra drills. Extra conditioning. Anything to keep my body moving and my brain from counting down the hours.
“You trying to kill us or yourself?” Dex asks when I’m running my third set of suicide sprints.
“Both.”
“That’s not funny.” He skates closer, voice dropping. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing.”
“Bullshit. You’ve been off for days. Snapping at everyone, showing up early, leaving late.” He studies my face. “It’s almost the 29th.”
I stop mid-stride. “How do you know about that?”
“You think I don’t remember? Last year I found you unconscious on your bathroom floor at 2 AM.” His expression is grim. “Vomit on your shirt, empty bottle on the counter. You scared the shit out of me.”
The memory makes my stomach turn. I’d woken up in his guest room with no memory of how I got there, just shame that lasted for weeks.
“That was different?—”
“Was it? Because from where I’m standing, you’re doing the same thing. Just haven’t hit the whiskey yet.” He grips my shoulder. “Talk to someone. Marnie, me, a professional—someone. Don’t do this alone again.”
“Marnie’s not—” I stop. Can’t finish that sentence. Not speaking to me. Not available. Not mine anymore.
“Not what?”
“Nothing. I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. And tomorrow’s going to be worse.” His voice softens. “At least let someone know where you are. Let me check on you.”
