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That I can’t fix.
In fact, I’m one of her jailers.
“Jesus,” I say softly, under my breath. “You’re right.”
She looks up sharply. “Huh?”
“You’re right.” The room spins. I’m still in control, but it takes effort. “You are damned if you do, damned if you don’t.”
She just blinks, over and over, as if in a trance. “You’re...agreeing with me?”
“Yes.”
Her eyes narrow. “Is this a trap?”
I sit on the ground next to her, my gun belt digging into my hip. It’s a taunting reminder of the past hours. “No.”
“No one ever agrees with me.”
“I am.”
“Then do something to help me.”
“I am.”
She huffs.
“But I’m also hurting you, and I’m so sorry for that.”
She inhales sharply. “I have no idea what to say to that.”
“Promise me you won’t run away again, okay? Okay, Lindsay?” My turn to plead. “You promise me that, and I’ll promise you this: I’ll help you leave.”
“What?”
It’s the way she says that single syllable that breaks me. It snaps me in half. The word comes out as a tiny gasp of disbelief, a plea, a prayer.
“I mean it,” I say, my voice thick with emotion. I can hear the change between us as much as I feel it. Nothing we’re saying erases my fury about what she did to me or fixes her trust issues, but my perspective has shifted in just these handful of minutes.
I never thought I was part of the problem.
I always assumed I was part of the solution.
Harry and Monica want Lindsay to turn back time and be the good little girl she was four years ago. And if she can’t comply, they’ll bend her like a pipe cleaner and make her into a facsimile of what she once was, just long enough for the cameras to record the perfect family.
The American Dream.
Whether Lindsay wants that or not.
I can’t stop them.
But I can’t let her run away.
Which means I have to rethink everything I thought I knew.
As the first few sunbeams turn to a blinding shard of light, I look at Lindsay.
She’s staring out the window, her eyes washed out by the sun, making them transparent.
