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“Come on, let’s go see the fortune-teller,” I say, intwining our fingers and pulling my reluctant fiancé out of the shadows. “There are rumors she’s the real deal.”
“Good luck convincing someone who majored in computer science,” he returns dryly, but his smile is indulgent. “I don’t believe anything that can’t be explained in zeroes and ones.”
I flick him a flirtatious look over my shoulder. “Can you explain us that way?”
A groove appears between his brows. “No. I can’t.” He brings my hand to his mouth, kissing the backs of my fingers. “Maybe she’ll make a believer out of me after all.”
The crowd dissipates around the fortune-teller’s table and I push Byron into the seat, laughing when he pulls me down into his lap. The fortune-teller is a striking woman in her forties with rich umber skin and a simple black dress. When she arrived earlier, I expected her to be wearing a feather boa or some kind of sparkly regalia, so her clothes were a surprise. Now, she watches us with an inscrutable expression, her fingers tapping out something like Morse code on a stack of tarot cards. But when I expect her to shuffle those cards, she pushes them aside and becomes fixated on Byron.
“Sir, forgive me, I am getting a very strong feeling where you are concerned, but I don’t want to ruin your evening. This is a party and not a time for serious discussion.” Her throat works with a swallow. “Perhaps we can meet at a later date.”
Byron hasn’t completely lost the skeptical tilt of his lips. “Whatever you want to say is fine with me. I’m sure I can handle it.”
The fortune-teller wrings her hands. Then in a rushing whisper, she says, “You lost someone close to you recently. Your fabric was woven together very tightly with this person. A sister.”
My skin turns cold.
I watch as the color drains out of Byron’s face.
“Yes,” he says hoarsely, beginning to frown. “That’s right.”
The woman begins to rock in her chair. “You lost her on a road. A dark road. An accident.” There is a jarring impact in my bones when the fortune-teller pins me with a hard stare, a muscle jumping in her cheek. “She was there. You. You were there.”
My skin turns ice cold, nausea roiling in my middle.
Oh God. Oh God.
It’s happening. Byron knows the terrible truth. Did I think I’d be able to run from it forever? This is going to hurt him so badly. The betrayal. The deception. The fact that I’m not who he thought I was. I’m just a former bad girl wannabe who didn’t do the right thing.
Byron huffs a laugh and turns to me, shaking his head. “No, she wasn’t.”
I’m so tempted to brush this off and pretend the fortune-teller is spouting nonsense. So tempted to continue like this, living a perfect dream life with the man I love. But I can’t lie to him anymore. I’ve done enough damage already.
“Yes, I was,” I push through stiff lips.
His demeanor turns rigid, any remaining warmth seeping from his features. “You…what?”
“I was in the other car. Th-the one that hit Nancy. I wasn’t driving, but I was asleep in the back seat.” Trembling head to toe, I bury my face in my hands, terrified of the hatred that is surely going to transform him at any moment. “I’m so sorry. I’m sorry. We’d been out dancing and we drank too much. I begged my friend to call a cab, but she wouldn’t. I was afraid to stay out alone by myself so I went along without arguing. We were only going a m-mile. And when I woke up…when I woke up there was glass everywhere. I was trapped in the footwell. And…”
Now that the truth is coming out, it pours, like a dam has burst.
“I read on the internet that the girl we’d struck and k-killed had a brother. I was just going to check on you, to make sure you were all right. I didn’t expect to fall in love with you the day of her burial. To be so drawn to you. And I couldn’t stay away, Byron. I couldn’t help getting closer and closer. I’m sorry.”
I force myself to drop my hands and look him in the eye. All I see there is denial. Disbelief. No hatred yet, but it’s coming. Of course it is.
“I deserve the shame. I deserve every name you’ve ever called me. I was a stupid girl. If I wasn’t so stupid, I could have stopped it from happening—”
“Jane,” he chokes out.
Here it comes. He’s going to tell me he never wants to see me again. He’s going to tell me he hopes I burn in hell. It’s nothing less than I deserve. And I should sit here and take it. I should force myself to be chastised and have my heart ripped out. But I find I can’t do it. I can’t witness his loathing toward me.
