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Thank God, the nurse had told her the neighbor—an older woman who had called the ambulance—had Bryony at her house now. She wasn’t hurt. Tatum was relieved the little girl wasn’t hurt, but she assumed Bryony was scared to death.
“Why don’t you close your eyes?” Charlie suggested. “Get some rest.”
He said rest. Not sleep. He knew better. And yet, Tatum couldn’t imagine closing her eyes right now. The images her brain would serve up would make her sicker. Her sister, bruised and broken, in a hospital bed. Her niece with a stranger.
“I can’t.”
He didn’t argue with her. Again, Tatum tucked that little nugget of information away in her heart. This guy was too good to be true. His whole family was too good to be true. But she’d tried a time or two to step away, to put some distance between herself and them. They wouldn’t hear of it. Breathing space, sure. They were generous with that. With time.
But Charlie had promised her he wasn’t going anywhere, and Tatum almost believed she’d met a man who kept his promises.
* * *
Sutton looked like a science project with all her bandages and bruises, the needle in her arm and the IV bag at her bedside. Tatum crept into her room silently, praying that Bryony hadn’t seen what happened, that she hadn’t seen Sutton like this. Charlie had offered to come in with her. And he’d offered to stand right outside. Left it up to her, which confused her. She wanted to be alone with Sutton, didn’t she?
But she liked knowing he was with her. She liked his quiet strength. She liked that as much as she hurt, as she had since that damned phone call in the elevator—it was kind of a miracle that she had service in there—Charlie’s love soothed the rough edges just a little bit. Just enough.
She ducked her chin to her chest when she stood at Sutton’s bedside. Charlie pressed close as they watched the slow, steady rise and fall of Sutton’s chest. Her sister looked small, fragile, and Tatum swallowed a pang of guilt remembering how she’d judged Sutton on that last visit. Thinking she looked hard and aged.
None of it was Sutton’s fault. Or was it? At what point did Sutton need to take responsibility for her actions? At what point did Tatum need to cut the strings and make her fly on her own?
“We need therapy.” She whispered the words, but she wasn’t talking to Sutton or Charlie. Maybe just herself. Charlie put his arm around her and cupped her upper arm for a squeeze as Sutton’s eyes flickered open.
“I’ll be right outside.” Charlie kissed her cheek. “Okay?”
“Yeah.” Tatum nodded. “Thank you.”
Eyes on her, he walked backwards to the door and then slipped out, leaving Tatum alone with Sutton. She sucked in a deep breath, hoping for courage, and turned back to Sutton, expecting her to make a smartass comment about still fucking the hot guy.
“I’m sorry.”
Sutton’s words sliced like a knife. Tatum sniffled and reached for her hand.
“He…”
“Don’t.” Tatum shook her head. “Don’t try to talk. You need rest.”
Sutton tried to shake her head, but she winced, obviously in pain.
“He tried…”
Tatum’s gut clenched in anticipation.
“What?”
“To hurt.” Sutton licked her chapped lips. “Bryony.”
“He tried to hurt Bryony?” Tatum repeated.
“Yeah.” Sutton closed her eyes. Tears streaked her face. “You were right.”
“Sweetie, it’s not about me being right,” Tatum argued. “I just want you both to be safe.”
“I stopped him.”
Tatum smiled at the hopeful expression on her sister’s face.
“Good.”
