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“You wouldn’t be sitting here if that were true, Drew.” She taps the newspaper. “And they wouldn’t have been able to do this.”
All I can do is blink. I freeze, as if I’m trapped in my body, paralyzed. Blood rushes to my head, away from my heart, flowing into my fingers and toes.
My chest stops moving.
The world stops.
“Look,” I say, the word coming out of my mouth with so much effort. Instead of thinking in sentences, I’m working with syllables here, one at a time, chained together to form words that link with other words to make my thoughts come out. I inhale, then exhale, and say, “If that is true, then four years were wasted.”
“Why do you think that?” she asks kindly.
“Because I spent all this time getting ready for Lindsay. Making sure she’d always be safe.”
“Are you sure it was Lindsay you were protecting?”
“What?” Anger pours through me like my skin is just a mold, and fury fills it.
“I don’t think you were only trying to make the world safe for Lindsay. You were working to make it safe for you, too.”
“Of course I was,” I scoff. “I am,” I stress. The air conditioning clicks on, making me jerk. The sound surprises me, the deep whine of the system hurting my ears. I’m holding my breath and I let it out, my respiration inconsistent, the feeling that I can’t catch my breath becoming overpowering.
“Not as a byproduct, Drew.”
I frown. “Lindsay’s safety is always more important than my own. I’d die for her.”
Salma nods. “And that is admirable, but who would die for you?”
She might as well throw a brick at my face.
Because suddenly, my mother and father’s faces fill my mind. How they looked at the viewing at their funeral.
How their brakes failed.
Oh, God. They victims, too. How far does all of this go?
Did my parents die because of me? Because of some strange fixation Blaine, Stellan and John have on destroying my and Lindsay’s lives?
Bzzz.
The room makes no sense suddenly, as my emergency phone goes off. Salma glares at my jacket, sitting on the couch.
“You know I have a ‘no cell phone’ policy, Drew.”
“I know. It’s turned off. That’s my Code Red phone. It only goes off when there’s a life-or-death emergency.”
Fuck.
I leap up, rifling through the cloth, the pocket edge ripping as I grab the phone and answer.
“Foster,” I bark.
“Drew. This is bad.” It’s Paulson.
“Lindsay?”
“She’s fine,” he says, but his voice sends a cold ribbon of panic down my spine. “It’s you I’m calling about.”
“Me? What about me?”
