Page 101 of What's Left of Us

There’s a brief pause where she contemplates entertaining me. “Routines are plans that can be scheduled in advance for organizational purposes. They’re not necessarily set in stone, but they help guide people. I often recommend people have daily routines to help with anxiety and time management. Timelines are trickier. People tend to think they have to follow them in the exact order as everybody else. It puts pressure on them. If they don’t accomplish something in a timely manner, they feel like they’ve failed.”

“Can’t timelines guide people though?”

“Is there a reason you’re asking, Mr. Danforth?”

Back to the formalities. “And here I thought we were getting somewhere,” I muse lightly, watching as she remains unreadable. “Everybody seems to think that I should let go of everything that’s happened over the past few years and move on with my life. But I’ve never done well with that. Letting things go, that is.”

“Is there a reason for that?”

“There are a lot,” I answer plainly. When her silent stare makes it obvious she’s waiting for me to elaborate, I sigh. “I want closure. I want justice and satisfaction that I did something right—that I tried to keep my word. My word…” I lift a shoulder, glancing toward the window. “My word means everything to me.”

“I can respect that sentiment,” she begins, shifting in her seat to reposition. Her heels click against the floor, making my eyes go down to her exposed legs before they drift upward to meet hers. “Closure can be a very difficult thing to obtain. It’snever guaranteed. Most people I counsel rarely get closure from relationships that end.”

“This isn’t just about Georgia, doc.”

Both of her eyebrows go up. “No?”

I shake my head. “It’s part of it,” I admit begrudgingly. “She was a large piece of my life, and I took my vows very seriously. Even after it ended, I took them to heart.”

“It’s admirable.”

“Most people find it ridiculous.”

The good doctor shakes her head. “Not me.”

She’s been married, so she understands.

But her loss and mine are very different.

“I wanted to make a difference in her life by giving her another chance,” I say, looking down at my lap. “She deserved to figure out who she was without her family’s influence. Without mine. I wanted to be the person that helped her realize she had the world at her fingertips.”

“That’s a lot of responsibility for one person,” the good doctor replies, reminding me of Marissa’s words to me the other day.

“I promised that I would keep her safe,” is all I say back, swallowing down the lump slowly rising up my throat. “I was supposed to keep Matt Conklin safe too.”

A thick silence passes between us before I hear the creaking of the chair she’s sitting on. It’s only then I look up to see she’s scooted forward, almost as if she’s tempted to get up and walk over to me. The temptation is there; I can see it in the way her fingers curl around the notepad on her lap as if it grounds her to her spot.

It isn’t pity on her face though.

She peels her glasses off and sets them down on the table between us. “Lincoln, I want you to understand something. I know that your job is to serve and protect and that you’ve beentrained to take on a lot of heavy responsibility. But you cannot keep living with that guilt on your conscience. It’s impossible to save everybody. It will eat you alive.”

I don’t get the chance to appreciate my name on her lips the way I wish I could. “Then what the hell am I supposed to do? How are people like us meant to move on from things that we can’t get closure over?”

Her smile is warm. Gentle. “We find new things to look forward to in life.”

Is it really that simple?

She finally sits back, settling into the chair again and ignoring her discarded glasses. “Why is it that you associate one loss with the other when you speak about Georgia and Matt? What is it that you equate to this need for justice?”

My smile is forced. Weighted and numb all at once as I feel the crack in my heart expand another centimeter. “Georgia may not have pulled the trigger that day,” I tell her. “But she might as well have been the one who passed Jakob Volley the gun.”

CHAPTER THIRTY

Georgia/ Five Years Ago

As I’m pushingthe front door of the library open and turning on the lights, I’m startled by the baritone greeting from the broad-shouldered man in the custom Versace suit. “Hello, Georgia.”

Goose bumps cover my arms as I stare dubiously at my father sitting in my favorite armchair by the fireplace.

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