Page 175 of What's Left of Us

She reaches out, her touch startling me when her hand lands on my tense forearm. “What makes you so sure that those bullets were meant for you?”

Swallowing, I stare at her palm. “Because he told me when I visited him in prison. Right before he was killed for talking. Just like Conklin was killed. Just like the others were.” When I lift my gaze, there’s a hollowness inside of me that drains every ounce of energy I have left. “I have a body count attached to me allbecause I wanted to help a girl in need. They’re all dead because ofme.”

She shakes her head. “It wasn’t you who killed them.”

That doesn’t matter. “It might as well have been, doc. You said it yourself. We all make decisions that lead us here. Mine painted targets on their backs in bright red fucking paint.”

Removing her hand, she settles it into her lap and watches me. “The reason I wasn’t home to see my husband off for his trip was because we’d gotten into a petty fight the night before. I stayed at a friend’s house instead of talking to him about why I was upset. I ignored his calls. I ignored his texts. I didn’t tell him to drive safely or that I loved him. For a very long time, I blamed myself for the accident. I may not have been the person who got behind the wheel drunk, but I know he was distracted because of me.”

I know what she’s trying to do, but it won’t work. “That’s not the same thing.”

“Isn’t it?” she questions. “When the officers discovered him, his phone was still open with a half-written message to me on the screen. The person who struck him had a blood alcohol level twice the legal limit, so he was found completely at fault and survived to face the consequences of the life he took. And I’m sure he still feels that weight every single day. But I know my husband wouldn’t have been so distracted if I’d just talked to him after the fight. If I’d picked up my phone the first time he called. If I hadn’t been so stubborn, maybe he wouldn’t have been texting me. So, tell me, Lincoln. How is me holding on to that blame any different than you?”

I try to come up with a million reasons why it’s different, but nothing sticks. Because I know she’s right. She’s right, and I hate it.

Blaming myself has always been easier.

It’s put a face to the consequence.

Reminds me why it’s important to fix it.

To find justice.

Because I survived, and I’m the only one who can. Not Conklin. Not anybody else. Me.

Don’t go.

All I can do is swallow the words that wouldn’t have been the truth.

Theresa stands, walking over to her notepad and writing something down on the front. When she comes back over, she extends a paper out to me and waits until I take it.

When I look at the signature at the bottom of the release form that clears me for duty, my eyebrows pinch. “Why are you giving this to me now?”

“Because you’re ready.”

“It’s not like I’m going back to work,” I point out, staring at the pristine signature written in fresh black ink. “I don’t know why this matters now.”

The good doctor asks, “How do you feel when you walk out of these sessions?”

I hesitate only a moment, thinking about what my father said about me. “Lighter.”

“You didn’t have to keep coming,” she points out gently. “When you chose to take the early retirement, you could have called and told me you were ending our sessions. But you didn’t. You wanted to lift the burden off your shoulders. Maybe subconsciously, you needed to know that this wasn’t your fault. That’s why this matters. If it didn’t, you would have given up long before now.”

Dammit.I stare down at the paper before glancing up at her.

Her smile is soft. Warm. “What are you going to do now?”

Now? I slowly shake my head. “I don’t know,” I admit, feeling a lump stick to the back of my throat. “One of my buddies mentioned having a spot for me at his security business. I’veconsidered it. But I think I’ll take some time off for a while. After things…settle.”

Things.

She knows what I’m talking about.

She read the paper.

Sticking her hand out, I follow it up to her face and watch as she waits for me to shake it. “I think taking time off is a wonderful idea. It’ll give you a fresh perspective.”

All I can do is nod as I take her hand and squeeze it once.

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