Page 96 of Salvation
His eyes go wide, understanding finally soaking in through his high. “I–I don’t know. She said she wanted to paint tonight, and I was down because I thought I might get—” I cut him off with a hard glare, shutting him up before he can finish that sentence. He swallows, his eyes darting to the girl for help, but she’s still standing on the other side of the car, watching with her mouth hanging open. When he realizes she isn’t going to save him, he turns back to me and finishes his story. “She snuck out of her parents’ house, and I picked her up. She left her cellphone behind because she didn’t want them tracking her, and then we drove to that painting she’s been working on. She painted, and Iwatched. When she was done, I drove us to the bridge, hoping to—uh—talk? Yeah, so we could talk,” he says more confidently the second time, even though I know he’s lying through his teeth.
“What bridge?” I ask, my voice icy.
“The–uh—the one just south of here. It’s a good place to—talk.”
“Wait, you were at Miller Bridge with another girl tonight? Is that how you got to my house so fast?” The girl screeches, but we both ignore her. She huffs, getting back in the car and slamming the door.
“Get to the point where you break up,” I demand, losing my patience by the second.
“Fine, but, dude, it wasn’t my fault. Willow was sad—she’s always sad—and it was really killing my buzz, you know? So we fought. Then, we broke up, and I left her there because she refused to get back in my car. There, end of story. Now, can you let go of me?”
I shove him away from me. He stumbles, but I’m no longer paying attention. An agonizing fear washes over my skin.
Months ago, when talking about Willow’s depression, John said that they were cautious because they never knew the triggers, but from experience, I know that’s not always true. While it can be random, sometimes things happen that push you so far over the edge you don’t know how to come back from them—like what happened to me sixteen years ago after Ivy left.
But I don’t think it’s the idiot in front of me who pushed Willow over the edge. He might have been the final step, but I think Ivy and I might have been the first. Looking back now, I can see how the weight of so much information on a weak foundation might have shaken her. I can see her strength crumbling, like looking in a mirror, but I’d hoped we would also become the cement to steady her once again. The problem is, I can’t control what else has fallen on her shoulders: pressurefrom a stupid boy, rejection, fear over what she’s done to the mural, none of it.
Pulling my phone from my pocket, I check it again to see if Willow has responded, but when my messages remain empty, that blinding fear starts to spread into my limbs.
Shooting off another text, this one to Hayes, I turn to Cameron.
“Give me your keys,” I demand, and maybe he’s not as stupid as I thought because he stumbles back to his car, grabs the keys, and hands them over. “There is another officer on his way to escort you to the jail. I highly suggest you don’t run before he gets here.”
With that departing advice, I run, needing to get to my daughter.
______________________
Campbell: Meet me at Miller Bridge. It’s Willow.
Nothing is numb anymore. Everything is bright, playing in techno color. I can’t escape it. Fear, unlike anything I’ve ever known, races through my veins as I shoot the text off to Ivy, and then speed down Elm Street to the bridge on the other side of town.
Every second that passes feels like a lifetime. I don’t even know if Willow will still be there, but I do know that if she’s feeling anything that I’ve felt in the past year, then she doesn’t need to be there alone.
“Please, God, just watch over her.” It’s a broken prayer from a broken man, but I don’t question whether this one is heard.
The bridge looms ahead, and I press my foot down harder on the gas. It’s an older, stone bridge that sits high over a dried-up river. It needed to be rebuilt years ago, but since it’s down a back road, it’s low on the list of things for the city to fix. Just before I get to it, I pull my car over to the side of the road, jumping out and taking off running. My heart beats in overdrive, refusing toslow down until I know my daughter is safe. I run faster than I’ve ever run before, and when I get to the edge, my feet skid to a stop.
Willow is standing on the side, looking down over the thirty-foot drop. When she hears my footsteps, she turns her head toward me with tears streaming down her pretty face. Heartbreak lies behind her stare, but not the kind that comes from loving a boy. No, this is the kind that comes from not loving yourself enough.
Her eyes meet mine, and I recognize the look on her face. Numb. Hopeless. I’ve livedwithit, but I also livedthroughit.
“I never took you for a stalker,” she says, but it’s missing her usual snark. Her voice is flat, and my heart breaks.
The first time my heart ever broke was the day Ivy left. I never thought anything could hurt as badly as that, but I was wrong because watching my daughter’s heartbreak is just as painful. Maybe even more.
I shrug, wanting to keep her talking until I’m close enough to grab her. “Guess you don’t know everything about me then.”
Willow smirks but turns her head back to the ground below. I take a step forward, slowly easing my way to her.
“Since you’re here, I guess you saw the painting.” She doesn’t look up, but I can hear the fear in the tremble of her voice. She’s trying to pretend she isn’t scared, but she is.
“Yeah,” I say carefully, shuffling forward another step. I could be to her in two steps, but I take my time, knowing now is not the time to rush.
Honey colored eyes lift to mine, striking me in the chest with their sadness. “It was me.”
“I know.” I nod my head, keeping my eyes on hers so she can see that I’m not angry—that I only want to help—but it doesn’t matter because she’s angry enough for the both of us. I take another step forward, and she watches me.
“Ivy is going to hate me now.”
