Page 134 of What's Left of Us

“No,” I say, yanking my jeans back into place and opening the door. “Don’t.”

She watches me with wide eyes as I scrape a hand through my hair and try pushing past the sharp ache radiating from the bullet wound.

My eyes go to that damn necklace. “Why do you still wear it?”

Her hand goes to the silver chain. “For the same reason you hold on to your ring.”

Did she feel it in the pocket of my jeans?

“Go back to him,” I tell her, voice thick.

Luca.

Once she’s dressed, she wraps her jacket around herself and stands in front of me. “I guess I was wrong. We’re also good at lying to each other.”

What the hell is that supposed to mean?

She doesn’t say another word.

Doesn’t try to spoil the moment.

Instead, her hand brushes my forearm as she walks to her car, climbs in, and drives away.

I watch until her taillights fade into the distance, with a weight lifting from my chest.

With every goodbye comes a new beginning.

That’s what I’ll take with me.

As I climb in, I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Then I slam my hands against the steering wheel.

Tonight wasn’t just about Michael Welsh.

It was a farewell to a chapter everybody we knew was desperate for us to close.

CHAPTER FORTY

Lincoln / Present

There’s ink sprawledacross every section on the piece of paper except for the solid line at the bottom waiting for a signature. It’s pristine still, the pen having passed over it three different times as Dr. Lucero fills out the other information above it.

Then he sits back in his chair, his bushy brows furrowing as he moves his gaze from the paper to the computer screen where last week’s scan results are pulled up.

He sighs.

It’s a heavy sound—the kind that people release when they’re about to tell you something you don’t want to hear. And I know what that’s going to be even before his drawn-out sigh, “Lincoln…”

The permanent ache in my arm is a constant reminder that I survived that day when Conklin didn’t. I woke up with it this morning and let it ground me on the short drive to the doctor’s office for my physical.

I know the moment his body turns to me, and those eyes fill with sympathy that the scans seal my fate. He doesn’t need to say it, and I don’t want to hear it.

Not the apology or the glass-half-full bullshit to make me feel better. What I want to hear isn’t going to be said, which is a theme that I’ve been getting a little too much of lately.

But maybe that’s a good thing. It’s a healthy dose of reality about what comes next. What comes…after.

An hour later, I’m walking into the back entrance of the station when I see Beaugard coming out of his office with thelieutenant and another investigator following behind him. The paper in my hand feels heavier because of the weight of the words printed on it, but I almost forget about it completely when my boss gives me a sudden chin dip.

I stand taller, waiting until the two people he was meeting with walk in the opposite direction.

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