“I’m going to . . .” Bess waved a vague hand and pushed to her feet.
“I left the back door open,” Roger told her. “Just follow this path and you’ll see the farmhouse.”
It took a minute for Roger to take Bess’s place. Despite being out in the country, he was still dressed in nice slacks and slick shoes, so he was more careful about sitting down.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Roger half apologized. “I saw you pull in.”
Clarke shrugged. “We said what needed to be said.”
“I’m glad.”
And she knew he was. Despite everything, despite their history, and Sam’s death and the mess following it, he held no ill will toward her. They’d settled into something that wasn’t quite friendship but was more than two guilty survivors clinging to each other. He told her about Sam, the one he knew. The one who played guitar and owned a farmhouse and swam in the pond in the mornings, even in the middle of February. She told him about her Sam. The one who laughed at her wiseass comments and insisted Katharine Hepburn was really the best and most underrated Hepburn.
Roger cooked her dinner, and sometimes a haunted look would come into his eyes when he turned to include Sam in the conversation before remembering he was no longer there. They would be quiet for the rest of the evening after that happened.
But they tried to be kind to each other in those wounded moments. Because that’s what Sam would have wanted, and while Clarke had never succeeded in becoming a better person for herself, she thought maybe she could do it for him.
“Why don’t you hate me?” She couldn’t look at Roger when she asked it, because for all that they were gentle with each other these days, there was a part of her that was terrified he would say, I do.
“I know you’re never going to believe it, because you’re incredibly stubborn, but it wasn’t your fault,” Roger said instead.
Clarke started to protest, and he held his hand up. “No. I can’t believe you haven’t figured it out yet. Use that big brain of yours, Clarke. What do you think happened that night? You think Sam didn’t know what you were doing?”
That threw her. “But he didn’t stop me.”
Roger smirked, but it was sad at the edges. “Neither did I.”
The simplicity of the answer punched the air out of her lungs. “What?”
“When I was younger, I did something stupid that you never forgave me for,” Roger said, and Clarke scrambled to keep up with the topic shift. It was hard, though; she was off balance and confused. “I picked my career over him. It was more complicated than that, of course. But you never really were one for nuance when it came to him. To us.”
Clarke shook her head. Not agreeing. Not disagreeing.
“Sam wanted him dead, Clarke,” Roger said. “More than anything in the world. He dragged you back into the case against everyone’s better judgment—that’s how much he wanted it. Last time I picked my career. This time I picked him.”
And it clicked. “You two let me go.”
“Self-defense is a little less believable when you have the entire cavalry there,” Roger murmured.
“But . . .”
“We couldn’t let the chief and the rest of the local cops suspect,” Roger continued, as she just stared at him at a loss for anything coherent to say. “An agent gone rogue is something you can explain away. Three agents becomes a conspiracy to murder.”
“He wouldn’t have let me go into danger alone like that.” But it made a sick kind of sense.
Roger tilted his head as he studied her face. “‘We don’t see our parents as real people.’ Isn’t that what you just said? I loved him, Clarke. But he was far from perfect. You’re a damn good agent. He made sure of it because I think he always knew it was going to come down to you against Simon.”
The vise that had been tightening, slow and sure around her chest, released, and oxygen flooded her bloodstream. The rush of it made her light-headed.
“He thought he’d be able to get to you in time, of course,” Roger continued. “We split up, and I took the locals off to some other location. He wanted to give you backup in case you weren’t able to take down Simon on your own.”
“I don’t—” Clarke stopped, swallowed, and tried to get air in at the same time. Three months of shame and guilt and darkness were difficult to shrug off. “Why are you telling me this?”
“You asked why I don’t hate you,” Roger said, simple and easy, as if he hadn’t just completely upended her entire world.
“Do you hate him?” The question hurt. But everything hurt right now. “Do you hate yourself?”
He huffed out a breath. “Him? No. Never. He was an arrogant ass who had a blind spot as big as yours when it came to Simon Cross. The only thing he cared about more than you was killing him.”
“Yourself, then?” she pushed, ignoring that last bit. Maybe this was the more important question anyway.
“Do any of us not?” Roger dodged, and she let him. It was true anyway.
They fell silent once more, and she thought of Sam. Of his insistence she join the case, of nights at the practice range, of that cagey look in his eyes when he’d first suggested she might want to think about becoming an agent all those years ago.
But layered over those memories were the ones of him talking her off a ledge in the early hours before dawn, of him threatening his way into her hospital room so he could be there when she woke up, of him promising to always be there. Of him always being there.
“I don’t want you to think less of him,” Roger said, reading her easily. “That’s not my intention.”
“I don’t.” She was only slightly surprised when she realized it was the truth. Everything between them had always been complicated. There had been deep gratitude and resentment and friendship and disappointment. She was used to dealing with complexities when it came to Sam.
“So. What are you going to do now?” Roger nudged her shoulder with his own, his tone light despite the undercurrents. He’d put her on six-month leave after the Simon case, but neither of them expected her to come back when it was done.
Before, the resentment would have gnawed a vicious hole in her belly. But now . . . now it tasted like something unfamiliar and sweet and heady. It tasted like freedom.
For the first time since she could remember, her life wasn’t being dictated by anyone else. It was hers alone. The idea was simultaneously terrifying and glorious.
She looked over at him and found him watching her back. She smiled, a rare thing these days.
“I don’t know.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thank you to Abby Saul, my fantastic agent, cheerleader, editor extraordinaire, advocate, answerer of questions, the calm voice at the other end of the phone, and all-around amazing person. Thank you for everything, but most of all for seeing potential and fighting to bring it to life.
To Megha Parekh, who not only helped make It Ends With Her a reality but made that reality stronger, sharper, and better. Your skilled eye, killer instincts, and boundless energy were appreciated every step of the way. Thank you for believing that we could make this shine.
A huge debt of gratitude goes to Charlotte Herscher, my wonderfully talented editor. I am so grateful for your keen insight, thoughtful feedback, and deep understanding of exactly what this book was and could be.
And thank you to the entire team at Thomas & Mercer; this could not have happened without each person who helped on the project.
Last but not least, thank you to all my family and friends, but especially Dana Underwood, for being the best first reader I could ever ask for; and Deb and Bernie Labuskes, for always supporting me unconditionally.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Born in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, Brianna Labuskes graduated from Penn State University with a degree in journalism. For the past eight years, she has worked as an editor at both small-town papers and national media organizations such as Politico and Kaiser Health News, covering politics and policy
. Her historical romance novel, One Step Behind, was released by Entangled Publishing. She lives in Washington, DC, and enjoys traveling, hiking, kayaking, and exploring the city’s best brunch options. Visit her at www.briannalabuskes.com.
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