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“Miranda,” the older man snaps, but she narrows her eyes on Blair and continues.
“I truly mean that. We should have listened, should have protected you better. It never should have come to this. This is our fault, and I hope one day you will forgive us, and if I may... forgive yourself.” With those parting words, she leaves. The other cop smiles before running after her, no doubt to ream her out, but she was right to apologise. They fucked up. She owned that mistake, and that’s what matters.
Blair sighs, slumping. “I guess it’s done then.”
“It is,” I offer, kissing her hand. “It’s over, Blair.”
“Over,” she repeats and looks at me, her expression a mix of emotions. “I want to be happy, and a part of me is, but all I keep thinking about is everything that’s happened. I hope that goes away.” She stands and wanders off, leaving all of us to watch her with concern.
He might be gone, but that doesn’t mean the memories he left behind are. Only time will tell how she manages to deal with them. The healing process is only just beginning, but we will be here the entire time, ready to help her, love her.
Her family.
* * *
Cyrus
Blair is distant after talking to the police, so we give her some space. She’s clearly reprocessing everything that happened, as if talking to them has made it all that much more real.
We stay close in case she needs us. I work on the bikes, Asher paints, and Bray cleans in a tiny maid outfit to try and cheer her up, but she’s like a ghost ambling through the house. It worries us, that’s for sure. The doctor comes by to check on her and states that she’s healing well. He even removes her stitches and lowers her medication, but after he leaves, she silently goes back to bed again.
I hate it. I feel helpless.
I make sure she eats. I help her bathe and pick out comfy clothes. I try to make her smile and laugh, but it’s useless.
I watch our girl struggle. She’s healing physically, but I don’t think she is mentally. She barely sleeps, even with the drugs the doctor prescribed her, and she wakes up crying or screaming. She jumps at little sounds and always looks so far away. I know her recovery won’t happen overnight, but she isn’t talking to us, and I think... I think she needs to talk to someone to work through her feelings. I wish she would lean on us, but maybe she feels like she can’t right now, and although it hurts, I love her enough to want to fix this even if it means it’s not me who helps.
So instead of being a jealous, possessive asshole for once, I pull out my phone and dial the only other person she might confide in and ask for her help.
Faye.
