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You kept—”
“Because I had to!” he exploded. “Because that’s what everyone expected! Don’t you get it? They killed my sister. Everyone thought they killed Seth’s parents. I had to hate them.”
“Or else everyone would have hated you.”
A cool wind whipped through the parking lot, reminding her of Nick. Tyler’s breathing was heavy.
“Yeah,” he finally said.
She couldn’t reconcile this in her head. The sweet things he’d whispered to her this morning, the way he’d helped her with her own insane family, the way he’d gotten in her face and made her confront her own fears about herself.
And then this . . . this hate borne of nothing but selfish fear.
“You could stop it,” she said. “You could just . . . stop.”
“I can’t. Quinn, you don’t—”
“Didn’t you pin me against your bathroom wall and tell me to stop pushing people away? That people would help me if I’d give them the chance? The sad, sorry truth is that the Merricks would probably help you if you weren’t so determined to be an ass**le.”
“I don’t want their help, Quinn.”
“So you’re just going to keep on being ignorant . . . why, exactly?”
The sarcasm was out before she could stop it. Tyler’s face shut down, chasing away any emotion. “You don’t understand.
This isn’t me being ignorant. This is me trying to stay alive.”
“Just like they are.”
“I can’t argue this with you, Quinn.” His breathing staggered. “Not now. Not—not now.”
She took a step back. “Then go.”
He stared down at her.
Then he turned and climbed into his vehicle. He started the engine, but didn’t shut the door. He inhaled like he was going to ask her for another chance.
She took another step back. “Go. I’m not coming with you. Go.”
A muscle in his jaw twitched. Quinn looked away.
She expected him to beg her to climb in with him, to make more excuses, to apologize, to break down and give in.
He didn’t.
“Fine,” he said.
Tyler slammed the door and backed out of his parking place, spraying gravel when he turned onto the main road.
Quinn was still standing there, watching the dust settle, when a dark-haired man climbed out of the black sedan and approached her. He was young, mid to late twenties, maybe, with dark eyes and very average features. He wore a sport coat and khakis. If she saw him on the street, she probably wouldn’t give him a second glance. He looked like every other daddy of a three-year-old in a tutu.
Maybe he’d seen their argument and he wanted to make sure she was all right.
He said, “Quinn Briscoe?”
She frowned. “Yes?”
Then she kicked herself. What if this guy was a social worker? Or a cop? Wasn’t this how it happened? They cornered you somewhere and made you give your name—
