Page 116 of The Blackmail of Denise Randall

“Stop! Don’t answer that Miss Randall. Your honor, this has gone on long enough.” My attorney jumps from his seat.

Everyone knows so, for once, I’m not going to lie. I look at the jury. “Yes. I fell for his charm. The drugs. The temporary relief it gave me to the ache and void in my chest. Now, I’m sober and see things differently.” I look to my parents and then Amira. “And I’m sorry.”

Instead of taking me straight home, I insist on going to the hospital. My heart is in my throat as I wait for the elevator to ding and open its doors to the floor where they’re keeping Keaton.

I walk into his room to find him attached by wires to several machines . His head is bandaged, and he has several cuts on his handsome face. I take his hand in my mine, but I get nothing in response. His fingers don’t squeeze mine in return. His eyes don’t flutter. His lips don’t move. Not even his breathing changes. He’s just…there. Lying in bed motionless.

I break down and cry uncontrollably. I don’t know how long I cry for. When I finally stop, my body is tired. So very tired. My parents come back into the room to tell me it’s time to go home. I kiss Keaton on the lips and whisper my apologies.

“I’m sorry for all the times I was rude to you. I wasted so much time pushing you away and being unreasonable. You wanted to help me, but I didn’t let you. You were worried about me ending up here, but I sent you here. I’m so sorry my shit caused you all this pain. I did this, and I’m so, so sorry.”

My last thought as I leave is—will he ever know how much I love him?

It’s been a week since the trials finally ended. Kamila Jamerson was sent away. Isabelle went through a psychiatric evaluation and took a plea deal. She’s going back to a rehabilitation facility. Brennon, Nine, is still missing.Keaton has yet to open his eyes. I received a formal letter letting me know that word had traveled to Morgan Distributing. They dropped me from their internship program. I’m not even upset. It doesn’t seem as important now.

My mother gasps and reaches across to take my hands in hers. My father straightens in his seat and idly rubs his chin.

“Richard,” she mumbles, “are there no favors you can call in?”

“With all due respect, I appreciate that, but I deserve this. And maybe this is a blessing.”

My parents look at each other and then me. Mom’s eyebrows furrow. “Are you sure? You worked so hard. You wanted this.”

“I don’t know what I wanted. I need to try being me for a while and see what I really want.”

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