Page 38 of Save Me

She gives me a look before picking up one of the sandwiches and taking a bite.

While we eat, I continue to watch her. Though the happiness on her face is evident, I still see concern or something in her eyes. After years of watching her, learning her habits, and getting any picture I could find of her—online, in person, anywhere—I know her expressions well.

“You’re distracted,” I say. I bring it up for two reasons. The first, out of concern. The second is because I’m selfish. I want all of her thoughts, her attention, her secrets.

If something’s on her mind, I want to know it. Everything that’s hers, I want it.

“I’m not—”

“You are,” I cut her off. “It’s not constant, but you get this distant look in your eyes now and again.”

She stares for a second. Those beautiful brown eyes of hers observe me. “How do you see that? It’s as if …” She shakes her head.

As if I’ve known you for years? Because I have.

I can’t say that out loud, though.

“I’m excellent at reading people,” I say instead of the truth. In reality, I’m excellent at reading her. Years of experience.

She pulls her knees up to cover them with her arms and then props her chin on her arms. She finally drops the mask from earlier, and the forlorn expression now covering her face pulls at my soul.

My hands are on her before I know it. I turn her body so that she’s in between my legs, running my hands up and down her jean-covered thighs, stroking them.

She sits up, placing her hands on the blanket to support herself as she leans back. But she keeps her body positioned in between my legs.

“It’s this investigation.” Looking out toward the hills, she sighs. “While I was out of town, I met the mother of the girl who killed herself,” she admits.

I remain silent, listening.

“She was so … cold,” she continues. “I can’t understand it. I mentioned her daughter, and the woman had no emotional reaction whatsoever. It’s like she was more annoyed that I disturbed her routine than over her daughter’s death.”

She throws a hand up and shakes her head.

I reach out and entwine my finger in one of the locks of her hair that spills out of her bun.

“How a parent could have such a lack of reaction about her child …” She shrugs, looking hopeless. “I’m not a parent, and I know that there isn’t one right way to grieve, but I just don’t understand.”

I can’t speak past the lump that forms in my throat. Now it’s my turn to stare off into the field around us. The pain that I’d learned to ignore over the years begins to rise. I thought I had overcome this burning in my chest whenever I thought about him.

My father.

The bastard who donated to needy families and even had an orphanage built in his name but privately ignored his son. Because I wasn’t born to a woman from a worthy enough family. I was the bastard of the help his family hired.

Not good enough to claim in public.

“You don’t understand because you’ve never experienced it,” I say without thinking.

From the corner of my eye, I see Kennedy turn to look at me. Her gaze burrows into my profile. I don’t return her stare.

I can’t. If I face her right now, she’ll see the burden of my past that I’ve worked too hard and long to bury.

Yet, I keep talking.

“You grew up in a family where you were loved. Not with parents who didn’t care whether you lived or died.” I inhale and blink a few times before finally turning to look at her.

“For someone like you, it’s hard to even fathom a parent who wouldn’t do everything in their power to protect, provide, and care for their children. Your parents would be devastated if something happened to you.” I push out a harsh breath.

“That’s not the case for everyone, though.”

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