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Before I lose my nerve, allowing my emotions to crumble my will, I reach behind my neck and unclasp the necklace. I drop the silver skylark in my palm, the chain following its path to pool around it. I then extend my hand out to him. “Right now, I want to be free to decide my own best interests.”
A muscle feathers along his jaw. “Alexis, your guilt is—”
“Don’t,” I say, looking down at the ground. Not into his eyes. “Don’t talk to me about guilt. You can’t possibly fathom what I’m feeling.”
He doesn’t accept the necklace. Instead, he motions to Jefferson and asks for his briefcase.
“Chase, please—”
Jefferson returns with it quickly, handing over the black leather case before I’ve gathered my thoughts. Chase reaches in to produce papers. “You no longer wish to be under my ownership?” He tears the papers in half, then once more, before he places the pieces in my outstretched hand. My signature stands out against the white page, surrounded by the destroyed legalities of our exchange. “But keep the necklace. It was my gift to you.”
My fingers curl around the chain and torn document as I drop my hand. “Just like that?”
His chest rises, his broad shoulders tense. “If it’s what you desire, then yes. Just like that.” He takes a step forward then, putting him directly in front of me. His hands clasp my face, his breath searing my lips as I look up into his drawn face. “I made choices for which I’m bound to suffer the consequences. I’m human. I’m imperfect. I’ve also never done this before – this, between us, is all new to me. But all was done out of my concern for you.”
I swallow past the ache his touch provokes.
“You need to know,” he says, “your brother’s drug use didn’t begin after your parents’ death – or after you left. He was already on that course before then, Alexis.”
“How do you know—?” I close my eyes briefly, the answer so obvious it’s painful. When The Firm looked into my past, that covered everyone in my life. “You’re not going to make it go away that easily, Chase.”
“I know, but you deserve the truth. And,” he says, his thumb caressing my cheek as he tilts his head, his eyes fixed on me. “The agreement, the legalities…it’s all mute, anyway. It’s impossible to own a person whom you’ve already given ownership over your own heart.”
He kisses my cheek before he pulls away, so chaste compared to his intimate admission that’s left me breathless.
“Jefferson, take Miss Wilde to the Memorial Hospital in D.C.,” he orders. Then glancing at me, he says, “It will be all right, Alexis. Take as much time as you need.”
Somehow, I allow Jefferson to lead me into the back of the town car. I’m still clutching the shredded papers and necklace when the car leaves the driveway. Chase gave me what I asked for. Without protest, without a power struggle. Without a second thought.
I look over my shoulder to find him disappearing into the garage beneath his house. My chest aches with every breath. A fiery current lashes through my constricted airway, threatening to suffocate me.
I realize my decision was voiced out of pain and guilt. Chase tried to call me out on just that. But there’s no logic to be found where our emotions are concerned. Had I not been so consumed with Chase this past week…would it have made a difference for my brother?
I don’t know. I’ll never know. And Chase may feel he’s being punished for my guilt—but he’s not. The sight of him walking away…the sound of the paper tearing…
I am.
I’ve always succeeded in punishing myself.
The steady beep of the heart monitor is the soundtrack to my brother’s hospital room. It’s not really a room, more of a corner sectioned off by drawn curtains providing the effect of privacy. But the sound of his heart—strong, steady—is all I’m focused on.
I place my hand atop his, my fingers resting on the plastic hospital bracelet. Jake had gone into sudden cardiac arrest. His heart had stopped. He nearly died. By the time his doctor contacted me, all this had already taken place.
How was I working on a case while my brother was dying? How did I not feel him almost slip from the world?
It took me sixteen minutes to get to the ER doors. Sixteen of the longest minutes of my life. No one should ever be given that much time to think when a loved one is dying. Your thoughts go to the darkest, most destructive places.
Careful of the ventilator mask covering his nose and mouth, I stroke his dark hair away from his forehead. It’s longer now, just past his ears, and is dingy and stringy. His skin is so pale there’s a blue tinge. The doctor said that’s common with a heroin overdose.
&nbs
p; I glance away, my eyes blurring with the sting of tears. I blink them away as I suck in a deep, antiseptic-laced breath, forcing myself to look at him. His hospital robe is askew and I glimpse the defibrillator mark along his ribs, the outline of the pad where he was shocked three times. Restarting his heart.
I straighten his robe, my hands numb. It’s cold in here so I search for another blanket.
“Miss Wilde?”
“Is there an extra blanket?” I ask, not looking up at Doctor Taylor as I continue to hunt around the room.
