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"Yes, and that is a tragedy, but I had nothing--"
"James is still dead!" I spat, leaning across the table, Pamela falling back, the guard across the room shooting forward. I moved back and the guard stopped.
"James was innocent," I said, my voice barely above a whisper now, the pain too great. "And he is dead, and as far as I am concerned, you are responsible for that, as much as if you'd put your hands around his neck yourself."
I stood and I turned away, and as I did, she got to her feet. "Olivia, no. Please. I can explain."
I walked to the door. "Olivia," she called. "Please."
I opened the door, and as it closed behind me, I heard her shout, "Eden!" and I kept walking.
--
I was now permitted to see Todd. The prison officials explained it had been an "administrative miscommunication," which I interpreted to mean there'd been some magic at work, likely Tristan's.
On my way into the waiting room, I'd grabbed a tissue, but if I did cry, it wasn't going to do me much good, because by the time that door opened, it was shredded on my lap, my fingers still pulling apart every scrap big enough to shred.
Todd walked over, that tentative I'm not sure of my welcome smile playing on his lips. When I smiled, he returned it and slid into his seat.
"Hey, there," he said.
"Hey."
He glanced at Gabriel, standing over by the wall. "Tell him to grab a chair."
"He'd rather stand."
"Loom, you mean."
I smiled again. "Exactly. More intimidating." I took a deep breath. "I know the truth. I know who did it, and I know why, and I know it wasn't you." I met his gaze. "It was Pamela. All Pamela."
Todd jerked back. "What? No. Whoever told you that--"
"She did. I figured it out, and she admitted it."
"Then she's lying."
"She's not, though I'll admit she's very good at it. You, on the other hand? You need to work on your technique, Dad."
He'd opened his mouth to protest. The
n, realizing what I'd called him, he froze. His mouth worked and then stopped as his eyes glistened and he shook his head. "Shit."
"Yep," I said.
"Whatever she said, I'm sure she exaggerated to protect me."
"She blamed you."
"She--?"
"She told me you were the one who did it. That she was the guilt-stricken conscientious objector who went to prison to protect you and support your actions."
He stared, and I almost wished I could pull the words back. He didn't deserve that. But he hadn't deserved any of it, and that was why I had to plow on, however much it hurt him.
"She . . . she must have had a reason. A plan." He gave a twisted smile. "Your mother always has a plan."
"I know," I said. "And sometimes, as much as she thinks she's protecting the ones she loves, she hurts them. Hurts them so much."
