Chapter 33
CASSIDY
I’m nervous, but I need to face my fear.
And to breathe air that doesn’t smell like expensive scotch and secrets.
I pull up at the local county airport and spot Holt.
He flies so often for his personal training business that he has a jet at the ready.
This trip isn’t nearly as electrifying as flying to Max’s house had been.
Holt and I fly to New York without much conversation. It’s an emotional trip. The weight of standing at Dad’s grave is tugging heavily at my heart.
The cemetery is a sea of gray stone and dormant grass, dancing under a warm summer wind. We walk in silence until we reach his headstone.
Allen Firestone: Devoted Father & Proud NYPD Police Officer
Seeing Dad’s name carved in granite feels like a physical blow to my sternum, catching my breath before I can form a thought. I stand there for a long time, my fingers numb as I try to push down the boulder in my throat.
Holt rubs my back as he says a few things to our father.
Then it’s my turn. “I’m doing it, Dad,” I whisper.
“I’m taking classes and getting my life back.
” I tell him about the digital forensics.
About how I’m finally feeling like me again, or at least a pre-attack version of me.
“You’d be proud of me. I’m not letting anyone take anything away from me.
I’m going to fight for victims like you always did. ”
Holt watches me for a moment, his hand squeezing my shoulder briefly before he turns to head back toward the car. He knows I need this. He knows I need to say the things I can’t say in front of anyone else.
The moment the car door clicks shut in the distance, the dam breaks. I drop to my knees in the dirt, the damp ground seeping into my jeans. “I’m so sorry, Daddy,” I sob, the words ragged and raw. “I’m so, so sorry.”
The guilt I’ve been carrying crashes down on me. He hung the moon and the stars for me. He was the one who cheered loudest at the academy graduation. And he’s gone because of me.
The cardiologist can call it Broken Heart Syndrome all they want, but I know the truth. My father’s heart didn’t just break. The fear and grief literally squeezed the life out of him.
“I would’ve traded with you.” I scream into the wind, my face buried in my hands. “I would’ve stayed under, Daddy. I would’ve never woken up if it meant you could stay.”
I’m blinded by the pure, unadulterated grief that makes my brain injury feel like a paper cut. I stay there, shaking, pouring my heartbreak into the wet ground, until I have nothing left.
I look up at the headstone, my vision blurred by tears. I came here hoping to feel strong. Show him I was ready to tackle that neurology appointment tomorrow on my own. But all I feel is the hollow ache of being an orphan in a world that doesn’t care.
I wipe my face, the salt stinging my skin. I have to get up. I have to keep moving, even if every step feels like I’m walking through wet sand.
On the way back to the airport, I make Holt stop at a small salon.
“You’re sure about losing the pink?” he asks.
I considered going back to my natural dark brown, but that feels like a version of myself that died in the hospital. Instead, I have them strip the pink until it’s a nondescript blonde.
When I look in the mirror, a stranger blinks back at me. A woman who could disappear in a crowd, just as I intended.
I feel stronger every day. Tomorrow, I’m going to drive myself to Hanover. No Holt. No security. It’s time to see if I can stand on my own two feet without the Devil’s Playground or Max Wilde propping me up.