Page 91 of Long Gone

“Of course you did, because Carter Hale looked it up. Hell, you probably have copies of the leases of all the tenants over the course of my father’s ownership.”

His arms hung at his side as he continued to stare me down.

“You fucking asshole,” I ground out, but he still didn’t respond.

“You knew, and this entire production was for my benefit. For what purpose? To hurt me?”

He finally shifted his weight. “I didn’t know everything. But I knew he owned the building. I also knew that would fuck with your head, so I kept it to myself.”

“Because I’m so fucking fragile?” I asked, my voice betraying me by breaking.

He didn’t answer, but he didn’t need to. I turned around and fled down the stairs, nearly falling on my ass twice. I told myself it was because the staircase was poorly lit and anger had made me clumsy, but deep down I knew the truth. So when I realized Malcolm still had the keys to my car, I didn’t wait for him and demand the keys back. I had no business driving. Instead, I hurried across the street and down the block until I stood in front of Nate’s bookstore.

Something deep inside me told me not to go in, but my instincts hadn’t been on my side for the past few months, so I let my need for a friendly face, and possibly a shoulder to cry on, override what I knew was ultimately a bad idea.

Nate was behind the counter when I walked in. He beamed with happiness when he saw me, but his smile fell as soon as he got a look at my face.

“What’s going on?” he asked as he hurried around the counter.

I shook my head. If I spoke, I’d break, and I was barely holding it together as it was. I needed to take a moment to stuff everything back in and superglue it shut. The thought of doing that alone left me feeling raw and scared.

“I just need a moment and a friend.”

Nate gathered me into his arms and pulled me to his chest. He smelled so good, like coffee and leather. It was comforting, and for a moment, I let myself pretend I was someone who could marry Nate or someone like him, and maybe pop out a couple of kids and live in his house that had a literal picket fence. That I could be a PTA mom who made cookies and went to Bunco nights.

That I could be happy.

But one thing I’d come to realize over the last few months of self-reflection was that I’d never actually been happy. Not really. Not since Andi. I’d settled for content, and I’d been the most content when I was deep in my work, seeking justice for people who’d been wronged. But other than my work, I was a shell of a woman. And while part of me desperately wanted to be the kind of woman who could marry a man like Nate and lead a small, quiet life, I knew that I would not only feel trapped, but I’d eventually gnaw off my leg to escape and bring down the man I’d tricked and any children we’d had.

I took a step back, surprised at the wet splotches on his shirt. When had I started crying?

“This was a mistake,” I said, my voice breaking. “I shouldn’t have come here. I shouldn’t have bothered you.”

His forehead wrinkled. “What are you talking about? I’m your friend and I’m worried about you. What happened?”

I shook my head, but even in my state of emotional distress, I knew he’d pursue this until I told him something, so I went with the excuse millions of children—both juveniles and adults—had used, as lame as it felt. “My parents.”

Understanding filled his eyes. “I know you’ve said their breakup doesn’t matter since you’ve hardly spent time with them since you left for college, but it’s still hard, Harper. You need to let yourself grieve.”

Grieve.

What did that mean? I felt like I’d spent my entire life in perpetual grief over my sister, and then Dylan Carpenter, the teenager I’d killed, and my career, but I’d never once felt grief over my parents’ dissolved marriage. If anything, I was pissed that my father hadn’t left sooner and taken me with him.

Despite the fact that we lived in the same house for four more years after my sister’s murder, he’d abandoned me. My mother had abandoned me years before, but my father…

A gut-wrenching sob burst through my throat, and I dropped to my knees.

“Harper,” Nate said in an anguished tone as he tried to catch me. He let me go and hurried to the door and flipped the sign to closed. Then he was at my side again, wrapping an arm around my back and hauling me up. “Let’s go to the back.”

I let him lead me to the back of store and guide me to the leather sofa customers sat on to read while drinking their coffees and perusing books.

Sobs poured out of me, and Nate sat beside me, his leg touching mine, my shoulder hitting his upper arm. I laid my head on his shoulder and cried and cried, but he kept his hands to himself as my heart ruptured and my emotions bled out.

Grief.

I knew I’d stuffed everything in for too long, planning to deal with it later, but later had never come and the knowledge that Malcolm was not just using me but manipulating me, piled on top of my father’s involvement with Hugo Burton, was too much. Just too much weight to bear.

I cried and cried, deep ugly, gut-wrenching sobs that left me hyperventilating, and when I finally stopped, I felt empty. Not only had I sobbed out my emotions, but I felt like I’d purged myself, leaving me behind an empty shell.

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