Chapter 31
thirty-one
HANNAH
“Fancy seeing you here.”
I froze at the voice. Bitter. Angry. Familiar.
Quickly, I moved in front of Clara, my entire body shaking as I turned to face the owner of the voice.
He had one hand in the pocket of a cheap coat, the other grasping on to a lit cigarette.
His cheeks were red, stubble patchy all over his face as smoke blew from his mouth. His eyes were bloodshot and angry. He smelled faintly of liquor. His hair was wild around his face, greasy and longer than the last time I’d seen him. He clearly hadn’t showered in a while and had lost weight.
But it was him.
My ex-husband.
Waylon was here.
In front of me.
Us.
He’d finally been banished from my mind. I’d been expecting him to do something, after the divorce papers were returned signed without so much as a peep. I waited. It had been certain that it couldn’t be that easy. Though if I catalogued the last few years, it had never been easy.
But there was nothing. No more credit card bills. No surprise visits. Not so much as an angry phone call.
I’d let myself hope. That he was done with me.
“Who’s this?” Clara asked, confused and weary given Waylon’s disheveled appearance but not outwardly scared. Clara had never had a reason to be scared of anyone. Even men. Though she was tentative after what happened to me. She understood people could be dangerous.
My stomach roiled when Waylon’s unfocused gaze settled on her, his lips stretching to show he’d recently lost his front left tooth.
“Hiya, sweetie,” he drawled.
I gripped Clara, gently pushing her behind me again.
“Don’t you talk to her,” I hissed.
My body was already thrumming with adrenaline, knowing that we were in danger. I was practiced at reading Waylon’s body language, the glint in his eyes, the energy he radiated that stuck to your skin like oil.
He was worse than I’d ever seen him. Drunk. Possibly destitute.
“You don’t get to tell me what to do!” he yelled, leaning forward. “You ruined my fucking life. My trailer got repoed because of outstanding debts.”
I ached to tell him they were his debts that he tried to pawn off on me and not my fault. If we were alone, I might’ve let my anger make me stupid enough to stand up to him, finally. But I wasn’t alone.
Protect Clara. That was the goal.
I didn’t want to look away from Waylon, not even for a second, but my eyes ached to go toward the truck idling in the parking lot. To the man in it.
Surely Beau was watching us.
He must’ve been distracted by something. There was no world in which he’d see Waylon approach and not come running over here like a bat out of hell.
Even if he was distracted for a bit, surely he’d feel the need to look over at us soon. Watch us.
Save us.
“We can talk about this, alone,” I told Waylon. “How about you go and see your dad, Clara—”
“No!” Waylon shouted, spittle flying from his mouth. He waved erratically with the hand that had been in his pocket. The hand that was holding a gun.
My body instantaneously froze in terror, and Clara whimpered behind me, pressing her small body into my legs.
I pressed her against me with one hand willing my body to be a shield against her. I had to wait. Stall. Beau would be coming. Any moment now.
But Beau wasn’t armed. He’d rush Waylon anyway. He’d sacrifice himself for Clara.
Clara would have to see that.
I wracked my brain for an option, one that would keep Clara safe. Keep Beau safe.
“Okay, how about I come with you, wherever you want to go?” I said as calmly as I could manage. “Just you and me.”
Waylon stopped waving the gun, his eyes zeroing in on me the best they could in his substance-altered state.
He considered it. Then he shook his head. “You don’t mean it. You love the brat. I know. I’ve been watching you.”
He’d been watching. And he had chosen now. He could’ve gotten me when I was alone, but he didn’t. He had some kind of horrible plan. And it included Clara. My vision tunneled.
No. Clara was not going to survive a terminal illness, beating the odds just to have some asshole ruin her life. Over my dead fucking body.
“No. Your issue is with me.” I pulled back my shoulders, voicing the words firmly while meeting his eyes with fury.
Waylon leveled the gun on me. “I know, and I’ll ensure I get my own back. Give me the kid.”
I held Clara tighter. “No way in hell.”
“Give me the kid, or I’ll shoot.”
Beau must have been coming soon. Any moment.
Out of the corner of my eye, I swore I saw movement.
The flash of a police car? A closing of a door? Maybe.
“Shoot, then.” I gritted my teeth, pulling a whimpering Clara farther behind me.
We were less than a hundred yards from the parking lot. Beau or the police would get to Clara after Beau shot me.
But he wouldn’t. Shoot me.
Even in this state, I didn’t think Waylon was stupid enough or brave enough.
Not for the first time, I was wrong about what a man was capable of.
Sound ricocheted through the previously quiet park as pain blossomed in my chest.
BEAU
An email.
That’s what annihilated my world.
Me looking down for two minutes to read a fucking email.
Me being too much of a coward to look at them.
No, what destroyed my world was letting Hannah walk out that door. Being the reason she was standing in that fucking park in the first place.
Then it was my fault for not having my eye on them every moment they were there. Hadn’t I done it with Clara since the second she got her diagnosis? Hadn’t I made sure I cast my gaze upon her at every available opportunity because I didn’t know how many times I’d get to look at her?
And then I got careless. Complacent. With her getting healthy. I let myself feel hopeful, thinking I could look at her as many times as I wanted … for the rest of my life. That there would be no regret if my attention momentarily moved elsewhere.
The reason I even looked at the email was because it was too fucking painful to watch them. Because I was weak.
I hadn’t told Clara the truth that morning. That me and Hannah were broken up. Because I didn’t consider us broken up. I considered myself to be an asshole of epic proportions, sabotaging my life because I wasn’t used to happiness.
I considered myself a piece of shit for hurting Hannah again. Yes, a lifetime of groveling and no less would do.
Even though I’d made a gigantic mess of our lives, one I’d never forgive myself for, I thought I could fix it. Repair it.
That was before I looked up and saw the man in front of Hannah, waving maniacally. Holding a fucking gun.
Holding a gun in front of my daughter. Pointed at Hannah. Almost point-blank. I was out of my truck in seconds. I barely registered that Finn had screeched up too, in his patrol car. There was no time for questions, for pause.
We were both sprinting, I was a little ahead of him. My gait didn’t so much as stutter when I heard the shot. But it shattered my insides.
Hannah didn’t hit the ground. I caught her. I covered Clara at the same time I heard a grunt then a struggle behind me.
There was a threat, a man with a gun mere feet away from my daughter. One glance. I gave myself one glance to decide whether I’d have to make the choice between getting Clara away or staying.
Finn.
Fucking Finn.
I’d owe him everything until the day I died.
He had the man, face first in the snow. Arms behind his back. Waylon, the ex-husband.
I didn’t relax. Not even a little. But I didn’t have to choose.
“Daddy?” Clara’s voice was splintered, the pieces so sharp they tore away my flesh.
I’d never forget the sound of that single word, the absolute terror in it.
I’d never forget her pale face and my eyes locking with hers, knowing that they’d never be clear with innocence again.
That singular event, the moment of my distraction, were the reasons my daughter would never know pure joy without it being tainted by that day.
It was seconds before this all passed through my brain. I pulled her into my body, holding her tight, kissing her head.
“Are you okay? Are you hurt anywhere?” I frantically searched her. She was wearing too many layers. Too many places for an injury to hide. It was a single gunshot. But it could’ve gone through—it could’ve gone through Hannah’s body and hit Clara.
It was the single most sickening thought I’d had to confront in my life.
She shook her head quickly. “No, Hannah—” she hiccupped. “Hannah, she protected me.”
My baby was okay. My child was okay.
But Hannah.
Was sandwiched between us. My knees were wet. I thought it was snow. But it was too warm. Too much.
It was blood.
I was soaked in Hannah’s blood.
Clara scrambled away from my hands to get to Hannah.
I stayed frozen in place for another second. Maybe two.
I’d torture myself over those two seconds. Because I wasn’t looking at Hannah, I didn’t realize that every single moment mattered. That I’d only have a few more chances to look upon her. Before we lost her.
HANNAH
The snow was freezing. But there was something warm underneath me.
The sky above me was extremely blue.
Someone was crying.
Calling my name.
Clara. Clara.
Her face entered my vision, streaked with tears. With fear so visceral it speared through my chest.
My chest. It hurt. A lot.
But that didn’t matter. Clara did. I reached up to her face, to cradle it. My arm only got halfway there. She caught it in her small palm, covered with a glove. I ached to feel her skin against mine. Her mouth was moving.
Someone covered me with something. A coat.
It was Beau. He was there too, his daughter tucked into his side. Had he been there the whole time?
His mouth was moving too. His eyes were wide with terror.
I wanted to tell him it was okay. That as long as Clara was okay, I was okay.
When I found the strength to open my mouth, there were people.
EMTs. I recognized them. I saw them just last week.
We have to stop meeting like this.
Did I say that in my mind or out loud?
They crowded my vision. Beau was gone. Clara was gone. I tried to fight then. Very hard.