by Ivy Carter
I may never truly understand how the last minutes of his life played out.
But I can’t keep wallowing in the past. If nothing else, Holden taught me that. And so, I include our relationship in my memoir, carefully keeping the details anonymous so that only a few people could ever figure out his identity. I owe him that much.
And then, four weeks from the date I started my book, I write THE END.
Lindsay stares at the printed pages on our kitchen counter. “That’s the whole thing?”
I nod.
“It’s a big book,” she says.
More than three hundred pages. “I had a lot to say.”
She smiles a little, which takes away some of my tension. “What happens now?”
“Good question.” I pour us each a glass of wine. “I’m going to take it to Professor Pritchard tomorrow. He’ll know what to do with it.”
What I don’t tell Lindsay is that I also plan to send it to Holden.
Chapter 23
I enter Professor Pritchard’s office with hesitation.
His voice betrayed nothing when he called to say he’d finished reading my manuscript and would like me to come to his office to discuss it. The feedback will be only my second on the memoir—the first being from my mother, who begrudgingly admitted that the story is both factual and emotional.
Obviously, she’s biased.
Holden is biased too, which is why I’m not surprised I haven’t heard from him, despite sending the manuscript with a heartfelt note thanking him for always being honest—even when I couldn’t.
“Chelsea!” Professor Pritchard says, motioning to the seat in front of his desk. He’s smiling, cheeks rosy with enthusiasm. Either he really enjoys delivering harsh criticism, or the book isn’t near as bad as I thought. “Thank you for coming in so soon.”
“No, thank you,” I say, though my appreciation may be somewhat knee-jerk. I catch a glimpse of my manuscript on his desk, the pages flagged in what looks like hundreds of miniature post-it notes in varying colors. I grimace. “You hated it, right?”
His eyes widen. “Not at all!” He chuckles, making his round belly jiggle a little like Santa Claus. “Quite the opposite really. You’ve written a remarkable piece of work here, Chelsea.”
My stomach twits. “You think so?”
He nods. “Oh yes.” He flips to the first page, where a red post-it marks the first sentence. Yeah, I worried it wasn’t quite right. “Take this right here,” he says, underlining it with his finger tip. “Just beautiful.”
I cock my head, confused. “You think the first line works?”
He flips through the pages. “Absolutely. Just look at all of these places I flagged…excellent. All of them.” He sets his folded hands on the manuscript and leans forward. “You captured so much emotion in here, it’s extraordinary, really.”
I can’t respond—his praise has rendered me speechless. Tears brim in the corners of my eyes, and I blink them back. It’s not at all the reaction I expected, but his words have given a glimmer of hope in the darkness that has shrouded me since Holden told me he never wanted to see me again.
Maybe even longer than that.
Much as I was loath to start such an undertaking, writing the book was therapeutic.
“How do you feel,” he says.
I swallow the lump of emotion clogged in my throat. “I’m not cured or anything,” I say, smiling a little. “But I admit, getting the story out has helped me deal with the past in a much more constructive way.”
Professor Pritchard is nodding again, and his eyes kind of twinkle. “This is the sort of book that could help a lot of people.”
“Do you really think so?”
The idea of making it public almost takes my breath away with fear, but I can’t imagine stuffing it in a drawer somewhere where it will collect lust. Writing it was only part of the therapy—showing it to the world is the only way I can truly heal from the past. Getting it all out in the open.
I try not to think about the people Mom and I have deceived along the way. The lies we’ve told to remain anonymous. The friends we’ve met who will be blindsided by the truth.
People like Holden.
“This isn’t just the best thing you’ve written, Chelsea, it’s one of the most remarkable things I have ever read,” he says.
My heart pulses with disbelief. I want to be proud, but there’s still this twinge of doubt holding me back.
“You should publish it,” he says.
I blink. “I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”
Professor Pritchard goes into his desk and withdraws a file folder overflowing with paper. He hands it to me, waiting until I take it to tell me what’s inside.
“This is a comprehensive list of agents who deal with this kind of work,” he says. “I had my receptionist put it together. Don’t worry, she has no idea why—probably thinks I’m writing my life story or something. What a bore that would be.”
I chuckle to mask the tremble in my hands.
“Anyway, I’ve included some examples of how to query these agents. Though, I’m sure you won’t need any help. I’m quite positive that any one of these people would be delighted to represent you.”
My mouth goes dry. “This is all so overwhelming.”
For a split second, I catch a glimpse of the stern, stoic professor I’ve known throughout the semester. His expression goes solemn. “Think about it, Chelsea,” he says, voice quiet and sincere. “You have the potential to help a lot of people with this book. Let that be how you give back for what your father took. I believe in this. And in you.”
Professor Pritchard’s words carry me as I make my way from his office to the rain-soaked streets. I don’t have an umbrella, but I’m numb to the steady pulse of the water. Could I really do it? Publish the book and use my father’s wrongs to do something right?
My white T-shirt sticks to my chest. Rain drops fall down the back of my neck, and between my shoulder blades. By the time I turn into the cul de-sac of my dorm building, I’m soaked.
But something inside me has changed.
I duck my head to stop the rain from splattering my face, and half run to the front door, fumbling for my key. A shiver runs up and down my spine. I barely notice the man standing at the door with me, until his familiar voice says my name.
My knees buckle.
I look up and he’s there. “Holden?”
Chapter 24
My heart lifts—and then sinks at the sight of him. He’s drenched, but that isn’t what makes me sad, it’s the haunted look in his eyes. That darkness, still crawling to get out. He leans against the doorframe, and runs his hand through his hair. “Hey.”
Goose bumps ripple along my flesh. “Hi.”
We stand at the door an awkward beat, before I finally get a grip and open the door. I hold it open, trying not to cry. “Do you want to come in?”
He hesitates. Follows me inside.
We’re silent as we walk down the hall to my apartment, but I’m all too aware of his presence. It’s heavy with remorse.
Grateful Lindsay isn’t home, I motion for Holden to come in, and then lock the door behind him. He takes a seat at the bar stool and buries his head in his hands. Water trickles down his arms, behind his neck, from the stool to the floor.
“Let me get you a towel,” I say, aware that I too am leaving a puddle on the floor.
“I read your manuscript.”
My whole body freezes.
“It’s powerful, Chelsea,” he goes on. “In all honesty, it shook me.”
I abandon the idea of getting a towel and pull up the stool beside him. My heart feels like its cracking, spider-webbing into a million pieces. I hate that yet again, something that I’ve done is causing him such pain.
His voice cracks. “All this time, I’ve been thinking about how that monster…” He checks himself, clears his throat. “How your father took so much from me, and everyone around us on that day. But I never stopped to
think about what it would do to his family.” He lifts his gaze, and our eyes meet. In his, I see so much hurt, it takes my breath away. “What it would do to his daughter.”
“I shouldn’t have lied,” I say. Holden tries to stop the apology, but I won’t let him. Not this time. “We were getting so close, and I was scared. Terrified that if I told you who I was, you’d…”
“Push you away, like I did.”
I breathe out a sigh. “You had good reason, Holden. I wasn’t honest. And the closer we got, the harder it was to go back and fix my mistake.”
He reaches over and grabs my hand. An electric shock goes through me. It’s been so long since Holden has touched me, that it almost feels like the first. My stomach tightens. He squeezes my hand. “The thing is, I haven’t been entirely honest with you, either Chelsea. And there’s something you need to know.”
Every hair on my body stands at attention.
“Your father, he…” Holden looks away. I can tell how difficult this us, but I’m not going to press. Whatever confession Holden is about to give must come from his own free will. My nerves are like livewires, restless in anticipation. Holden returns his gaze to mine. “…he didn’t kill himself.”
I suck in a gasp.
“Before he could kill all of us, Mason, Lucas and I tackled him to the ground, and we got a hold of his gun. Lucas had it trained on him—he wasn’t going anywhere.” He blows out a nervous breath. “We had a chance then, to bring him in to the police, make him explain what he did. But then….”
Holden’s eyes cloud over with grief, sadness.
I squeeze his hand, encouraging him to continue. The words are hard for me to hear, but I can only imagine how difficult this must be for Holden too.
“…we looked around at all the bodies.” His voice cracks. “And there was Mrs. Kratky, shot right in the head. I could barely make out her face anymore.”
I squeeze my eyes shut trying to block the images that are reeling through my mind. I can’t. All I see is red. So much blood….
Holden straightens, lifts his chin. “We made a decision, the three of us. It wasn’t right, I know that. But we just couldn’t let this man…your father…live. We murdered him in cold blood—and then we made it look like a suicide.”
I release the breath I didn’t even know I was holding. “You’ve been holding on to that secret for a long time.”
It’s meant without judgment, but I know all too well the cost of keeping something so big to oneself. It’s destructive, and a breeding ground for guilt. If I’ve learned anything from my studies it’s that guilt can make people react different ways. For Holden, it turned to darkness, and the inability to ever allow anyone in.
I can only imagine how he must have felt when Lucas and Mason opened up to the women in their lives, ultimately freeing themselves from the burden of keeping such a massive secret. Holden had no one.
Until now.
My hands tremble. His confession has shaken me, but I’m not mad. Holden has given me closure, the kind three hundred pages of written emotion couldn’t, and for that I am relieved—and grateful.
“It was time for it to come out,” Holden says. “I won’t apologize for what we did…but you had to know. I understand if you hate me for it.”
I’m trying to keep it together, but a tear escapes. “I don’t hate you.” And it’s the most honest I’ve been with Holden. “Being the daughter of a monster has given me a fresh perspective on right and wrong. The line between good and evil isn’t as crystal clear as most people like to pretend.”
God knows Mom and I suffered enough hateful judgement for crimes we didn’t commit. But I know that being his wife, or his daughter didn’t make me who I am.
“I understand why you killed him,” I say. My voice wavers, but not in doubt. “You were just kids.” Thinking about it now, I wonder if I wouldn’t have done the same under the same circumstances. “What defines you as a person are your actions now, moment to moment, not what you did in the past.”
Holden is staring at me with such tenderness, I don’t know if I can keep talking. He runs his thumb across my hand in a gesture so comforting it springs on new tears.
“I forgive you,” I whisper. “You were put in a terrible situation, and you’ve suffered enough guilt. I forgive you.” I lick my lips. “I hope you can forgive me for not being honest with you when we first met.”
Holden’s eyes shimmer with emotion. “Sweetness, I haven’t stopped thinking about you since you walked into my life, and the truth is, I can’t shake you. I have to forgive you, because that’s the only way we can be together. And I want that very much. I love you.”
My heart is so full I think it might actually pop out of my chest. Tears stream down my face. Is this for real? I search Holden’s face, looking for any indication that this is all a dream, but it’s not. I can pinch myself until I’m bruised, and he would still be there, looking at me with the kind of love I’ve only fantasized about.
“I love you too, Holden,” I say. “I have since the first time you held me.”
Holden pulls me close, and wraps his arms around my waist. “Marry me, sweetness. And I promise, that’s where you’ll always be. In my arms.”
“Yes.”
He pulls back, surprised. “Yes?”
I cup his chin with my palm and smile. “One hundred percent yes.”
His smile is brief before he leans toward me, and presses his lips against mine. My entire body ignites with yearning. Our mouths move in synchronized beats of passion, draining all of our doubts and reservations. His hand threads through my hair and pulls me closer, so close, it’s almost like we’ve become one.
The apartment door clicks open, startling us apart.
Lindsay stands in the hallway, mouth open, a young guy with his arm draped over her shoulder. He’s handsome, fit, just her type, and it makes me smile.
“Uh, hey,” she says. “Sorry to interrupt…” The guy beside her coughs, and she pats his chest. “So, uh…I’d like you to meet Zach.”
Epilogue
Reporters line the red carpet leading from the Daylight Holdings corporate limousine to the front of the ball room inside the Beekman Hotel. I step out of the car, holding onto Holden for balance, as camera flashes blink around me like glittering diamonds.
My hand moves to my swollen belly, the baby inside already famous thanks to a media frenzy. Since the moment our engagement was announced, Holden and I are magnets for the paparazzi. First, the story of our unlikely relationship made headlines, followed by full coverage of our extravagant wedding almost a year later. Now, baby Rachel—named after Mrs. Kratky, the teacher killed by my father—is enjoying her time in the spotlight as we make our way down the runway.
“This is too much,” I whisper to Holden.
His grin is infectious. “It’s not every day my wife’s book makes the New York Times bestseller list.”
My throat goes raw with pride. Soon after Holden and I announced our engagement, I began the process of finding an agent and publisher for my memoir. Both came easily, and the book hit the shelves, already coveting the number #1 spot on every bestseller list in the country.
This party—planned entirely by Holden—is in celebration of that milestone.
But of course, it’s in honor of so much more than that.
Inside the hotel, we’re met by Mason and Olivia, and Lucas and Eden. Olivia hands me a flute of sparkling apple juice while Mason serves everyone else champagne. Holden lifts his glass. “To my wife,” he says.
There is a murmur of agreement, and then we drink to the toast, while my nerves buzz with restless energy. Behind the door, hundreds of people wait for me to make an entrance. To demonstrate that yes, the past can be left behind. Forgiveness is an option. And that family doesn’t always mean the people you’re related to by blood.
My eyes drift across the smiling faces of my new family. Olivia and Eden have become like sisters, their advice invaluable, not to mention their f
ashion sense. My wardrobe has undergone almost as much a transformation as I have.
The door opens and a young man runs out. Lindsay’s fiancé, the one that made her finally stop looking for new challenges. My eyes water with tears.
Lindsay spots me and squeals. Her dress is short, and her cleavage plunges almost to her belly button, but there’s something different about her—maybe it’s happiness that makes her eyes glisten and her cheeks blush.
She hugs me, smooshing her toned abs against my baby bump. “Your glow intensified every time I see you.” She kisses each of my cheeks and places her hands on the side of my face. “You’re happy, right?”
I nod. “Deliriously.” I nudge my chin toward her guy, who stands awkward in the corner, trying to act nonchalant despite the fact that Holden and his partners are staring at him. “And I see you’re firmly a one-man kind of girl nowadays?”
She shrugs. “I’ll never wonder if there’s someone better out there. I tried most of them, and he’s the best.”
My response is cut off by another entrance, this time from outside. I spot my mother before she sees me, and my heart fills with sharp emotion. It’s been a few months since we’ve spoken, my engagement and wedding to New York’s most eligible bachelor and a victim of my father’s killing spree becoming a wedge between us that seemed impossible to move.
But she’s here, in this hotel, looking small and lost and my breath catches with sharp yearning.
Holden takes my champagne flute and whispers, “Go to her.”
My eyes shimmer. “You asked her to come, didn’t you?”
Mom didn’t make it to our wedding, and she didn’t respond to my letter about the baby, but when our eyes meet across the hotel lobby, it’s clear she’s overwhelmed by how much she’s missed out on.
We walk toward each other, me trying not to fall in heels, her stumbling to move faster without causing a scene. She wraps her arms around my neck and I start to cry. It doesn’t matter that my make-up will smudge, or that my eyes will be lined in red. My mother is here, and suddenly, everything feels right in the world.