“You worked for Mercy in Justice.”
“Yes.”
“For four years.”
“Yes.”
“So you were there when—” He stops. His eyes are searching my face, and I watch him put it together. “That’s why you reacted to his name just now. Darren Murphy. You know that name.”
“Oliver—”
“You worked his case.” It’s not a question anymore. “That’s why you looked like you’d seen a ghost. You worked his case.”
I could deny it. Could lie.
But I can’t.
“Yes,” I whisper. “I was the intern who compiled the mitigation report. I didn’t make the final decision, but I?—”
“You helped him.” His voice is shaking now. “My brother is having a breakdown right now because of what that man did to him, and you helped him avoid prison.”
The overhead lights flicker as we pass under a bridge, and his face sharpens in the brief shadow.
“I was trying to help someone who was abu?—”
“Don’t.” He stands up so fast he bangs his knee against the seat in front of him. The metal clang echoes down the aisle. “Don’t explain it. I don’t care about his trauma or his background or why he deserved a second chance. My brother deserved a chance too, but Darren took that away from him. And you helped.”
“Oliver, please?—”
“Did you know?” His eyes are boring into mine. “When I told you about Evan. About the trial. About how much it destroyed my family. Did you know then?”
“No. Not until right now.”
“But you worked for Mercy in Justice and said nothing. Why should I believe you?” His voice is cold. The train leans slightly as it rounds a curve, and the fluorescent light trembles over his shoulder.
“I was scared?—”
“You were scared?” He laughs, but it’s hollow, rough. A conductor’s voice mumbles something about the next stop over the intercom, distant and tinny. “Evan’s scared, Poppy. Scared his brain is going to betray him on his wedding day. ScaredSloane is going to realize what she’s signing up for and leave. Scared he’ll never be whole again. He has seizures. Recall problems.Readingproblems. He’ll never be the same.”
“I know. I’m so sorry?—”
“I can’t—I can’t look at you right now.” He grabs his bag, the zipper rasping loud in the quiet. “Don’t find me.”
“Oliver, please. Let me explain?—”
“There’s nothing to explain. You helped the man who destroyed my brother’s life. And then you let me fall for you without saying a word.”
He turns and walks away. The automatic door at the end of the car hisses open, a burst of cold air sweeping in before it seals shut again.
The wheels clatter over the tracks in that steady, merciless rhythm, and the world outside turns to open farmland—flat, endless, indifferent.
Because he’s right.
About all of it.
I sit frozen in my seat, staring at the closed door he walked through.
A woman across the aisle glances at me, then quickly looks away when she sees my face.
