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“Oh, heaven help me, why does my head hurt so much?” She covers her head with her hands and moans.
“You got drunk last night.” I reach over her and grab the two aspirin and the bottle of water. “Here, take these.”
I help her sit up, and she opens her mouth to let me drop the aspirin in and sips the water. She grimaces and swallows, but sighs and takes a few more sips of water, before she lays down again.
“Why are you here? Where’s your date?” she asks, her expression puzzled, and groggy.
I’d planned to ease into it, give her a chance to wake up, but I can’t hold it in any longer.
“I heard your podcast, Regan. I listened to the whole thing.”
She makes a sound, that’s between a moan and a whimper, and covers her eyes with her hands.
I pry them off her face and weave our fingers together in an imitation of what, I hope, we’ll do with our lives.
Then, I press our joined hands into the mattress to ground myself. Her warm, pliant hands a reminder that she’s here with me and safe. And that as long as I
draw breath, that’s how she’ll stay.
“I’m so proud of you. Incredibly proud of you.”
“Proud of me? For what?”
I glance up to find her watching me with worried eyes. “I’m sorry you went through that. And I feel sick to think that he wanted to hurt you because of what I did.”
She sits up, suddenly, and winces. “No, don’t say that. You were a child. He was an adult, and what he did was because he’s depraved and emotionally broken. And because he could.”
“Yeah, but I stabbed him. I pressed the silent alarm and then left you face the music. Shit, Regan. I’m sorry...”
“No. Don’t say that again. Please.” She tries to free her hand and I let it go immediately.
She groans and flops back onto the pillows and flings an arm over her face. “See, this is why I didn’t tell you. Or anyone else.” she laments. “I can’t carry the burden of your guilt on top of mine. And unlike yours, mine isn’t imagined.”
“Imagined?”
She lifts her arm a fraction, and peers at me. “Yes, imagined.” she clips. “I’m not fragile. Don’t treat me like I am. What happened to me shouldn’t happen to anyone. But I got out of there. I got my life back. I’m a survivor. Not a victim. You should be afraid of me. Do you know the kind of strength it takes to put one foot in front of the other after a piece of your soul is irrevocably damaged? I won’t ever be the same. And I hate that it took my best friend dying to realize that may not be such a bad thing. I survived.” She makes a sound that’s halfway between a moan and a growl. Then she drops her arm to her side like it got too heavy for her to hold up anymore.
“Like I said, I am so proud of you.” I take her hand in mine again and trace the network of veins, smile at the way her fingers curl into my palm. I’m relieved she doesn’t resent me. But it’s going to take me a little while longer to get over my guilt. I wish I could get my hands on that fucker.
“What happened to him?”
“He’s dead.” Her voice is sharp, and she draws the sign of the cross over her chest.
I chuckle, but I’m unsettled. “What was that about? Are you not sure if he’s dead?”
“Lower your voice,” she hisses.
“Sorry,” I mutter and take a deep breath. “Well, is he?” I ask, my voice softer, but no less demanding.
“I don’t know,” she sighs deeply. I feel like I can’t breathe.
“How come?” I keep my voice calm, speak slowly to hide the storm clouds gathering in my mind.
“My grandfather is the source of that, so we don’t believe him. The woman, Rebecca, was released from prison five years ago. But, there’s no trace of her.”
“And what about him?” I urge her. If that man is still alive…
“My mother is looking into it. I haven’t asked though. Honestly… I try my best not to think about him. And I’m more concerned about finding her.”
