Page 167 of His Surrender

“He kept calling her.” Each word is rougher now. “Every time it went to voicemail, he got more frantic. But he kept telling me it was probably traffic.”

Dean’s head lowers further.

“I believed him because he was my dad. He was supposed to know.”

My eyes burn as I picture Steven as I know him now—warm, patient, always ready with some quiet reassurance for his son—and then I imagine him younger, terrified, trying to hide it from a teenage boy.

“What happened?” I whisper, although I already know.

Dean’s entire body tightens. “The police came.”

The room seems to shrink around us. He is no longer looking at the floor. He is looking through it, his focus fixed on something far beyond the apartment.

“There were two of them. I remember one of them took off his hat before Dad opened the door.”

A shiver passes through Dean.

“I knew.” His grip on my hand turns desperate. “I knew before they said anything.”

I lift our joined hands and press them against my chest.

Dean does not seem to notice. “I remember thinking maybe she forgot her keys,” he says. “That’s what I thought when I heard the knock.”

A tear slips down my cheek. I do not wipe it away.

“But she didn’t forget her keys.” His chest rises sharply. “A drunk driver crossed the center line.” The words tear through him. “She died before they got her to the hospital.”

“Dean.”

I reach for him with my free hand, but he pulls away just enough to stand. The movement is sudden and unsteady.

He takes two steps toward the windows, then stops as though he forgot why he moved at all.

I remain on the couch for only a second before following him.

His back is to me as he braces his hands against the windowsill.

The city stretches endlessly below us, but I know he is not seeing any of it.

“I thought I was over it,” he says. His voice is quieter now, hollowed out by exhaustion. “I thought I’d dealt with it years ago.”

I stand behind him, close enough to touch him, but afraid that doing so might cause him to shatter.

“I went back to school. I went to college. I built the company. I made a life that worked.”

He shakes his head slowly. “I don’t wake up thinking about it. I don’t avoid cars. I don’t have nightmares.”

He looks down at his trembling hands. “I didn’t know this was still in me.”

My heart aches so fiercely that I press one palm against my chest. “It makes sense that it is.”

“No.” He turns around. The grief in his face stops me. His eyes are red, though no tears have fallen. His expression is twisted with anger, but none of it is directed at me. “It doesn’t make sense.”

“It does,” I reply gently.

“I knew you were probably fine.” His voice rises slightly. “I knew your phone had probably died. I knew the stores were crowded. I knew there were a dozen completely normal explanations.”

He drags a hand through his hair. “But all I could see was you lying somewhere alone while I stood here, doing nothing.”