Page 131 of Past the Broken Bridges

Not willing to believe my ears, I use the advantage to dart under the tape and run faster than I ever have toward the accident site. There are tons of people in uniforms working around the mangled vehicles blocking the street, the car partially under my totaled truck smoking as firefighters work on it.

“Sir,” a male officer calls out from somewhere to my right.

I search frantically until I see blond hair on the opposite side of the street, the body small and curled into itself on the edge of the sidewalk.

Holy shit.I know before I can even process the features of the person on the curb that it’s Sawyer.

MySawyer.

Swallowing down the realization that somebody else died, I manage to break free from the officers attempting to restrain me, and I run to her.

“Sawyer,” I scream.

She keeps rocking, mumbling words to herself that I can’t understand until I’m dropping to my knees in front of her.

“Sawyer,” I repeat, examining the blood caked to her face and hair.

She’s saying something under her breath.

I try tilting her chin up, but her body is frozen.

In shock.

As she continues to rock, I try listening to the words she’s saying over and over again. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

I shake my head, moving hair out of her face and trying to get her to look at me. “Sawyer, I don’t know why you’re saying you’re sorry. If it’s about the truck, I don’t give a fuck.”

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

When I swipe my hand along the hair framing her face, I stare wide-eyed when I see slivers of red underneath. Suddenly, the blond disappears, falling behind her until short strands of youthful red are revealed beneath my fingertips. “Sawyer—”

Two hands grab ahold of me from behind, pulling me away from the girl who looks so much like the one I knew.

Red hair.

Blue eyes.

Tom Sawyer. It’s a book.

“Sir, you need to move away, or we’ll be forced to arrest you for obstruction. We can’t have anybody else back here right now.”

I jerk out of his hold, uncaring of what happens to me. Kneeling back down, I cup Sawyer’s face until she finally meets my eyes. I look at her.Reallylook.

I’m Sawyer. LikeTom Sawyer. It’s a book.

Her lips are moving, but nothing is coming out. Over and over, they form silent words. Her arms are wrapped around herself. “What are you saying, Birdie?”

Her head shakes slowly, her blue eyes glazed and distant until they finallyseeme. A shallow breath escapes her. “It should have been me.”

It’s the last thing she says before two officers haul me away, one of them handcuffing me and another talking into his radio.

But all I can hear are those five words.

It should have been me.

They haunt me as I’m guided into the back of the cop car.

It should have been me.

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