Page 53 of Revere: A Legacy Novel

“It wasn’t because of you.”

Everyone always wanted to feel guilt for someone else’s choices where suicide was concerned. That wasn’t how it worked. Only the person who made the choice held blame. No one else.

“A couple weeks,” Cross murmured, staring straight into her goddamn soul.

“Yeah.”

“That’s why he did it.”

Catherine frowned. “What, who?”

“Your father.”

“What did my dad do?”

“That bastard,” he whispered.

Cross finally let her go. Catherine tucked her arm into her chest, and hid her secrets once more.

“I … uh, have to … go,” Cross mumbled. “Yeah, I have to go. I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sorry, babe.”

He walked backward, and nodded like he was trying to convince himself of what he said. Still, in his eyes, Catherine saw pain and hate and violence shining back. A promise of his chaos sure to come.

“Cross, wait,” Catherine said.

He had already turned his back to her. He didn’t answer her call, or her following shout. In seconds, he was inside his vehicle and the lights flashed when the engine growled. She watched his Rover’s tires smoke on the way out of the lot.

Your father.

Why he did it.

Bastard.

Those words drifted through her mind again.

Something was very wrong.

Cross’s penthouse was too quiet. He tried to stay out of it as much as possible. He would sleep wherever the fuck he could just to avoid coming home. His parents’ place. Zeke’s apartment. The goddamn hotel down the street.

Anywhere but here.

It was just easier that way. Easier to pretend like he had done the right thing by making Catherine leave; easier than walking floors that were meant for both of them, and not just one.

He wasn’t even sure how long it had been now since he put her in that elevator. A week, but probably closer to two. He spent his days doing everything and anything except thinking about his place, her, and all the rest. He exhausted his mind and worked his body to the bone so that when night came, he dreamt of nothing.

He didn’t want to hurt in his dreams, too.

Cross eyed the boxes in the corner of his place. Catherine’s things. Someone should have come and picked them up by now, yet no one had.

That could have been partly his fault.

He’d changed his number because he figured if he heard her voice even once, his resolve was going to come crumbling down.

She needed help. She needed to get her life together. She needed him to make her do it because she was never going to do it on her own.

She needs you, he thought.

Cross pushed those thoughts down. They were punishing, and he was already hating himself enough. He already ached without adding more to it.