Chapter 37
BAILEY
“It’s not too late to change your mind, you know.”
Ben’s words fill my ears as I gaze through the windshield at the terminal.
A thrum of traffic surrounds us, airport shuttles and buses buzzing past in rapid succession.
My body aches with the sound. Something no one tells you about surviving a car wreck is this: Getting into a car hurts.
Literally. Any time I do, I feel my ribs pulse along the fracture lines like they never healed.
Any time my foot touches the floorboard, I hear the snap of my shin and crunch of my ankle.
My shoulder aches whenever I reach for my seatbelt like my tendons are about to tear all over again.
After a wreck as bad as mine, getting into a car is war.
What I’m about to do is worse.
“Seriously, Bailey,” Ben says. “Say the word, and we’ll go. I’m here for you. You don’t need to do this.”
I twist toward him, his face tender, his forehead dimpled in concern.
My heart cracks. I want to be able to tell him he’s right, that he can help me through this.
But he can’t. And he shouldn’t have to. Since my suicide attempt, things have been rocky between he and Owen.
I’ve overheard their phone calls, heard the strain in Owen’s voice muffled through the speaker when they talk.
The two of them are a rubber band pulled to max tension; if I stay between them any longer, I have no doubt they’ll snap.
Besides, I need to do this. I have to. If I don’t, I know the darkness will pull me back in just when I’m starting to glimpse the light. And that light is Reed’s destruction.
“My baby brother, always looking out for me,” I say, reaching over to place my hand on Ben’s cheek. “I’ll call you as soon as we land.”
“You’d better. Every night.”
I pop an eyebrow at him. “You know I won’t be able to do that.”
“Once a week, then.”
“I’ll try.”
He frowns. “I’m serious, Bay. If I don’t hear from you at least once a week, I’m going to the cops.”
I tense. Bringing the police into this is one of my non-negotiables and he knows that. We’ve only discussed it a dozen times. No cops no matter what happens. But with what I’m putting him through, I suppose I can give him this. “Okay, fine. Once a week. But do me a favor, will you?”
“What’s that?”
“Go home and focus on Owen for a while. I’ll be fine.”
“I wish I could believe that,” he says before pausing like he has something else to say.
I wave my hand. “Go on. Out with it.”
“It’s just … I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to that.”
“What?”
“Your new face.”
I mime a pained expression. “You don’t like it?”
“I love it, actually,” he says with a grin. “With your ugly mug, I can’t believe you didn’t do it sooner.”
“Oh, shut up,” I say, laughing as I slap his shoulder before pulling him into a hug. “Bye, Ben.”
“Bye, Bay,” he says, squeezing me. “You be careful. And don’t forget to call me.”
“I will,” I say, squeezing him back. “Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
He gives me a final wave as I pull my suitcase from the backseat and shut the door. And then he’s gone, his car swallowed in the traffic. I’m hit with a sudden rush of sadness. My brother is about all I have left to love in this world. Even if something happens to me, I hope he’ll be okay.
I turn away from the curb, and a man barges past me, banging his suitcase into mine without a word.
Somewhere to my left, someone barks out a laugh.
“You’re shitting me!” a woman screeches behind me into her phone. “You can’t be serious!”
Her voice blends with other conversations—people laughing and shouting and clacking by in shoes that smack against the cement like jackhammers. I haven’t flown since the wreck, haven’t ventured to the airport once. Just being here, standing in this crowded space, makes my skin crawl.
I suddenly wonder if Ben was right. Maybe I shouldn’t be doing this.
It feels overwhelming—all these people, all this noise.
My heart flutters, and I take a deep breath and try to slow it, but it only beats faster in response.
How can I navigate the complexities of a relationship with the man who killed my family if I can’t even walk into an airport without suffering a nervous breakdown?
It’s not too late, Ben’s voice whispers. You can still change your mind.
My fingers drift toward my pocket and my phone. All I have to do is dial his number. All I have to do is call and ask.
And then I see her.
Zane crouches in front of Cora several yards ahead.
He’s holding his daughter by the shoulders, speaking softly with his head in a tilt.
She trembles in place as her mother, Maria, stands behind her, biting off a sob.
Zane says something that makes the girl laugh, and then she half-thrusts herself, half-falls into his arms. He holds her there and runs his hand over the back of her head.
I draw closer and take her in. Cora’s eyes are a deep, liquid brown.
One tracks slightly outward while the other battles to focus through a slow series of blinks.
Her face is pale and slack, and her lips move as if caught in a constant mumble.
She tilts forward when Zane pulls back—like she’s about to collapse—but Zane steadies her and then presses her forehead to his.
They remain like that for a long moment before Maria swoops in and helps Cora into the car—something infant-like about the girl’s motions, something so … helpless.
Zane watches them go as they pull away, and my heart breaks again for the second time in five minutes. Seeing him with his daughter like this is gut-wrenching.
“She’s beautiful,” I say, easing next to him.
He nods, but doesn’t turn my way, just remains there looking as broken as I’ve ever seen him, staring at the traffic like he’s about to shatter.
“That she is,” he says, clearing his throat. “Come on.”
Thirty minutes later, we’re seated at a table in the food court, both of us with cups of coffee in hand. Zane stares into his with half-lidded eyes. “Sorry about that. It gets harder to leave her every time.”
“I can only imagine.”
He lifts his gaze. “You’re one of the few who can. Not many people know what it’s like to lose a child.
He falls silent, and I don’t press him. Instead, I change the subject.
“So, are we going to talk about last night, or pretend it didn’t happen?”
“What about it?” he asks.
“That little altercation of yours with the doctor.”
“Peter Wainwright. Yeah, he was one of Cora’s specialists.”
“Was?” I prompt.
“Correct. No more. He’s a neurologist. We were told he was the best. Maria and I had to wait months to see him.
The day we did, Cora was fairly alert but did have a few behavior problems in his office.
She threw a fit and knocked some stuff off the shelves.
He didn’t even spend thirty minutes with us before he referred her to a child psychologist for behavioral therapy.
He wanted us out of there, said to come see him again in a month if things didn’t change. ”
“I’m guessing they didn’t.”
He shakes his head. “No, they got worse. Cora started falling all the time, had trouble communicating with us. With everyone really. So we booked another appointment with Wainwright, but we had to wait longer than a month like he promised. Maria and I told him how concerned we were when we were finally able to see him again. We laid out all the symptoms. But he didn’t listen.
He ordered the wrong tests and then referred us to a bunch of other doctors that couldn’t help.
He didn’t seem to care. It delayed Cora’s diagnosis by almost half a year. ”
His eyes glimmer, and he shakes his head and takes a long sip of his coffee. “That girl means everything to me. I wanted to do things right this time around. She’s supposed to be my second chance.”
I wrinkle my brow. “What do you mean?”
“My son, Sean. I … well, I fucked up with him to be honest. I was on the force back then. Worked way too much. Ignored him when he needed me the most. I had a bit of a gambling problem back then. That and the job were all that mattered to me at the time. By the time my priorities changed, it was too late.”
An ache like poison spreads through my stomach. I know this kind of regret. It’s a blade that cuts deep.
“Anyway,” he continues, “Sean was always getting into trouble. Bullying kids. Acting out. Looking for attention. My first wife, Samantha, did her best with him, but she was working too. Neither of us were around enough to keep Sean in line. He got into a lot of trouble.”
“Like what?” I ask, curious. Zane’s never opened up like this before, and it’s a strange kind of relief to realize I’m not the only one struggling here.
“The usual stuff,” Zane says. “Pot. Drinking. Running with the wrong crowd. Playing the tough guy and getting into fights. Stealing things. Sam and I did what we could. We tried to get him involved in sports and extracurriculars and all that, but it was too late. You have to start young with kids. We waited too long.”
“How old is he now?” I ask.
“Twenty-one. He helps me out with my cases sometimes. I keep waiting for him to turn it around, but I don’t know if he ever will.
He’s still on a pretty bad track.” Zane takes another drink of coffee and returns the cup to the table.
“Anyway, after Sam and I split, I swore if I ever got another chance to be a father, I’d do it right.
And now that I have, I can’t even get my little girl the help she needs. ”
My heart softens, and I reach across the table and set my hand on his. “Hey, what’s happening with Cora isn’t your fault, Zane. None of this is on you.”
He wipes his eyes and shakes his head. “Yeah, maybe. I don’t know. But either way you don’t need to hear about any more of my shit. You’ve got enough of your own to worry about.” He checks his watch. “You ready? This is your last chance to back out. We board in fifteen minutes.”
I nod. I am. I just hope he is too.