Chapter 20
BAILEY
“This is it,” Ben says, pulling up to the gate.
I sit in awe, staring at the house beyond that isn’t a house so much as a castle.
Chimneys soar from a pitched clay-tile roof.
The front is all stone and glass with an entryway that looks like it belongs on a luxury hotel.
One we’ll never be able to reach. The gate blocking the drive is solid wrought-iron—no way to get through.
The sight fills me with relief. I’m not even supposed to be here right now.
I’m supposed to be dead.
“Looks like this is as far as we go,” I say.
One corner of Ben’s mouth kicks up into a half-grin, and my relief bleeds away. I know that look. He has a plan. He always has a plan.
“That’s where I come in.” He eases his Subaru Impreza forward and slides a white card from his pocket, rolls down the window, then presses the card to the electronic reader curving from the side of the road. The reader lights flash green, and I watch in shock as the gate retracts.
“How?” I ask, still staring at the now wide-open drive.
“Who do you think built the place?”
His architecture firm, I think. Vertex Group. Oh no.
“I have an appointment,” he continues. “Mrs. Nash wants to discuss a home renovation project.”
“But we won’t be doing that, will we?”
He shakes his head.
“Ben, you’ll get fired.”
“Yeah, probably. But it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. I’ve plateaued there anyway.”
“No, you haven’t. You love your job.”
“I do,” he admits, chewing on his cheek in contemplation. “But not as much as I love you. Ready?”
I groan. “Not really.”
“Too bad.” With that, he pulls past the gate.
The driveway is enormous. I can’t tell if it’s stamped tile or artisanal concrete.
An expansive lawn skirts it, wrapping around the front of the home and descending toward a massive dock tethered in boats.
Beyond it, Lake Washington sparkles with a surreal sort of light.
It feels like I’m staring into a postcard.
We park near a perfectly sculpted bank of rhododendrons that fills the car with a sweet scent.
It makes me sick. Being here makes me sick.
The place reeks of money and excess. Every blade of grass is cut to the same exact height.
The lawn is a ridiculous shade of green.
The shrubs are expertly shaped everywhere I look, not a single stray branch out of place.
The home is worse—beyond opulent. Every inch of it looks custom built from the sprawling windows to the detailed brickwork.
I turn my attention to the entryway and its gigantic oak doors.
Donald and Paula Nash reside somewhere behind them.
I’ve spent the last two years trying to scrub their faces from my brain.
And now, here we are, about to pay them a visit like we’re old pals.
But it isn’t the prospect of talking to Paula that fills me with dread.
She isn’t Evelyn’s mother. Paula Nash came along after Evelyn was mostly grown.
Donald was the one who molded her into the kind of woman who got behind the wheel of a BMW so drunk she could barely drive.
Donald is the man who raised the woman who killed my family.
And it’s Donald who deserves the blame. Not that I have any idea what I’ll say to him if he’s actually home.
Hi, I’m Bailey Nichols. My family’s dead because of your daughter. Mind if I come in?
A lump forms in my throat and I look away.
“Hey, breathe, okay?” Ben’s fingers skim the back of my arm, and I realize it’s trembling—that I’m trembling—my entire body shaking. Twin trails of warmth run down my cheeks and drip from my chin.
I sniff and take a deep, wet breath as I shake my head. “I can’t do this, Ben.” My vision blurs. Tears stain my shirt and patter onto my jeans. I don’t know how I have any left at this point. I’ve cried an entire ocean’s worth over the last two years.
“Bailey, look at me.”
When I don’t, he reaches across the console, places his fingertips beneath my chin, and tilts my gaze toward his.
His eyes are glassy pink. “You’ve never fully processed what happened.
You stopped going to therapy. You quit your job and shut everyone out.
You shut me out.” He tightens his lips and looks away for a moment.
When he looks back again, his voice is thick.
“You were about to … Fuck, Bailey. You were about to kill yourself.”
“I wish you would’ve let me,” I whisper.
He winces. “How can you say that?”
I stare down at the backs of my hands and bite my lip. “Because I should have gone with them.”
“But you didn’t. You survived for a reason.”
“Which is what?” I snap, suddenly angry.
Anytime anyone tries to paint the wreck in a positive light, I see red.
“Mom and Dad are gone! Ethan and Noah are gone! I wake up every single morning without any idea how I’ll make it through the day.
I’m not even living anymore, Ben. I’m just existing.
I don’t have anything left to live for.”
“You have me.”
The words slide into me like a knife. I gaze at him.
His cheeks are wet. He’s no longer trying to hold back his tears.
He went through so much after his fall. It took fifteen surgeries to put him back together.
He had to learn to talk again, couldn’t eat, dress, or bathe himself without help for so long.
He didn’t take a single step for months, didn’t walk on his own for a year.
When faced with challenges like his, most people would have given up.
But not Ben. Giving up isn’t in his vocabulary.
I’ve been so selfish, so lost in my pain, I’ve forgotten my brother has plenty of his own.
He’s right. If I can’t live for myself anymore, I can at least try to live for him.
“Okay, fine,” I say. “Let’s go.”
With that, I wipe my eyes and get out of the car.