by Rachel Hanna
"You didn't have your car with you?" one of the officers asks. He's black, built like a fighter, very thick and muscled, with a clean-shaven head. His partner is tall, blond, white, thin. They're kind of like reverses of each other.
Easier to agree with them about not having my car with me. I'd prefer not to get into the whole I don't drive and here's why thing. At the same time I flash back to what I thought on the street. That hiding didn't work. My past from Seattle is writing me letters. Kellan's past in the form of someone who hasn't forgiven him is sending him threats.
Which in an equation my math tutor couldn't figure out means I can learn to drive and get a license. I'm legally Willow Blake now. There may be a brief moment in DMV that someone will want to know about Kate Lambert. Maybe not.
Doesn't matter.
Wow. I'm going to get to learn to drive. Soon as I get out of the cast.
"I didn't have a car with me. It was busy on the street. There were a lot of people on the sidewalk." I frown at them.
"There's a bus that stops on Bee Street, just short of your location," the tall skinny cop says.
That makes sense. "Plus it was early evening. People might have been leaving work," I add. "Someone bumped into me. I had just reached the corner of the cross street and started to turn to see who it was and someone shoved me hard in the back." I gesture around mid-back.
That sparks a series of questions. Was I bumped or pushed.
Pushed.
Did I feel the hands shoving me.
Of course I did. What do you mean?
Individual hands. Could someone have lost their balance, maybe tripped or run into someone else and hit you?
I kind of gape at that question. Carefully I explain. I felt individual hands on my back, shoving. I started to look back and was shoved again. On purpose. Then I fell. Into traffic. Directly in front of a car.
Kellan's hand tightens on mine.
The other questions are routine. For them. For me everything is surreal. Probably that's the drugs.
Maybe it's the situation.
The police ask if I saw anybody at all at any time on the street who I might have recognized. I didn't. They ask about whether I know anybody who might do something like this.
That's a little harder. I could tell them about the I know what you did letter that's followed me from Seattle. I should. I know that. I just don't want to be Kate Lambert again, not even for a few minutes.
Or do I tell them about the threats Kellan has received. That I believe that's what our argument to the extent that we had one is about? That I suspect someone I've never met and have no proof has done anything, except –
Eye for an eye. At the time I had thought that causing a car accident would be tricky, because how could someone do it without being n the accident themselves and possibly hurt or even killed?
But what if eye for an eye meant experiencing not what the victims, Aimee and her babies, experienced?
But rather what the survivors went through?
"Miss Blake?"
I glance up at Kellan. No one can touch me where I am now. Even now it's not me I'm afraid for. It's Kellan. Not because I'm brave or feel invulnerable. There's a very scraped up hand he's hanging onto that proves to me I'm not and a broken leg throbbing despite opiates in my system.
But Kellan was responsible for three deaths, the complete change of one man's life and the shattering of his best friend's life, however much Jake and his father may have forgiven.
Yes, I'm terrified of the idea of someone who wants to kill me. The words don't even sound real in my mind. Someone who wants to kill me. But I'm more afraid of Kellan's reaction if someone severely injured me, left me broken and unfixable. Left me that way and then told Kellan eye for an eye. You did this. Your actions led to this. You harmed someone I love.
Someone you love has been harmed because of you.
But I can't tell his story for him. Not yet. He has to have the chance to do it himself. For all his talk of recovering and being a light, making a difference in the world he took three lights out of, Kellan is still drowning in guilt. He still feels ruined.
Whoever is stalking him is making it worse. He's still in prison.
He meets my eyes. The police exchange looks, restive. Probably thinking one of us cheated on the other, or maybe we both cheated on others who are responsible for what happened.
Honestly, I don't care if those are the reactions. This is what matters. Right here. I can worry about the future if Kellan doesn't speak. Then I will take steps. I won't let him put everyone he cares about at risk, because they're the same people I care about.
But I want to give him the chance.
Our eyes meet. Kellan takes a deep breath, and turns towards the police officers.
There's no reason they would have run his background but he asks them anyway. The look they give him is total confusion. So Kellan tells them, briefly, in such concise but thorough detail I can't help feeling he'd make a good reporter himself. He tells them that he's been out of prison for since September, and what he was in for. He then tells them about his contact with the families. I'm surprised to find the police are nodding, apparently in approval.
"If you ever feel like talking to a high school, we can put you in touch with organizations that schedule that kind of presentation," the bald cop says. He's fishing in his wallet, under the badge, for a business card. "Our department does sometimes, too. Puts people in schools. Usually officers, but we can use people who want to help."
I feel tears in the backs of my eyes and blink them away. The way Kellan squeezes my hand as he takes the card with his other hand, it's affected him, too. He pockets the card and goes on to tell them about the packages. Apparently there were two others I never saw, and he's gotten phone calls and texts.
"They weren't escalating," he says, and I can hear the way his voice shakes. I want to do something to reassure him. I'm right here. I'm all right. But he has other family to worry about too. Time enough later to reassure.
After he finishes there are a couple rounds of why didn't you tell the police? Followed by Kellan making excuses and squeezing my abraded hand more tightly until I lean forward, getting the police to look at me.
"David Reynolds was a police officer in Atlanta," I say very quietly. We've told them everything else and I'm not making an accusation like "Kellan knew you wouldn't help him," just leaving it to them to interpret.
Which they do. They're both quiet, but no less involved. They take the information from Kellan, ask about the calls, all of which came from unlisted. About the packages, which were dropped off.
They're about to wrap things up when I take a breath and speak. "I think it might be Aimee Reynolds' sister."
Everyone turns to look at me. Kellan looks amazed. I can't tell if he knew. I don't think he did. There are enough crazies in the world that someone could have targeted him who wasn't even part of the family, but since he was getting packages of photos, how could he not have thought it through?
So I tell them. About my limited research and why I think it might be Stacee. Because of the photos, and access to them, and because I believed David Reynolds when he said he forgave Kellan.
The blond cop cocks his head. "Did you have anything to do with those videos? The series – oh, hey, those were on the college TV."
I was actually in the videos, I think, a little snide, but then, no one says he watched every episode and all the way through each. "That was our series," I say. Oh, so modest, Willow. That's my baby. "I'm the student station operations manager at DCTV."
The other cop is tapping a finger nail against his front teeth, a habit that sends more chills up my spine than when I crack my knuckles (my own habit that drives me crazy). "Wasn't there a break-in there recently?"
"You know about that?"
"Just exchange of information from college cops. We keep in touch."
I shrug. "Nothing was taken, just some of the tapes were messed up."
"You
still use tapes?" the blond officer asks.
"Which tapes?" the bald officer asks.
"The forgiveness series."
Yep, that's a surprise. And this would be the time to tell them about the letter I got, not the one from Reed's father, because I'm pretty sure that's over and done with as long as I never see Reed Miller again (and at this point, because I don't care about Henry Tate Miller's threats. After being pushed into traffic, being told the big-time attorney is going to run and tell people everything I did? Small potatoes.)
The letter from someone who knew me in Seattle. Or knew about me in Seattle.
I don't say a word.
Chapter 15
"So before my dad and your mom show up," Kellan says, sitting gingerly on the edge of my bed, "want to tell me what was going on?"
I've got a semi-private room that apparently I'm going to be stuck in overnight. I've known people who had gallbladder surgery and one friend who had weight loss surgery and they've gone in and out the same day. I break my leg and I'm spending the night.
In answer to Kellan's question, I tilt my head and stare at him. "Were you not listening to what I told the police?"
He nods. He hasn't shaved in a day or two. He looks like a surfer, or a rock star on vacation. He's bronzed and in great shape, but the tension hasn't left him.
"I heard. I just didn't know if you wanted to tell me anything different."
Anger flares. "You want to tell me anything? Oh, wait, no, I have to wait until you're making a police report."
He squints at that.
"How could you not have figured out who was doing that to you?"
"Who says I didn't?"
"I do. It was clearly news to you. Someone sends you threats and you just assume they only mean you, not anyone around you?"
My voice is rising. I've snatched my hand back from his. Kellan holds his hands up as if trying to calm me.
"Someone leaves a box of photos and a threat on your doorstep and you don't think to tell anyone in the house that you think you might know who it is?"
"Willow, shh, it's all right, shh."
"It's not all right, you jerk! It's not all right that you think it's all right if someone hurts you! People love you."
"Right. My dad who – "
"Who is a different generation and doesn't understand and probably blames himself and doesn't know how to reach you and who you're so afraid you've shamed that you can't reach him halfway anymore than he can reach you! You fucking idiot."
I can hear stirrings in the corridor but the footsteps pass by. We're both quiet for an instant, as if a nurse might come in and tell us to keep it down, this is a hospital.
Like I haven't figured that one out.
"Look, I haven't – "
"Shut up," I snap at him.
"It's not like you told me everything either." He looks hurt. He gets off the bed and paces to the window which offers a stunning view of another wing of the hospital.
I stare at him. "About Seattle? About my dad?" He's bringing that up? Now? Really? "Well, there was the fact that nobody knew where I was."
Not true anymore.
"And there wasn't anybody coming after me."
Also not true anymore.
He spins away from the window to face me. "I wasn't putting anyone at risk! I didn't think she'd go after anyone else! I never thought she'd hurt you."
The look in his eyes would break my heart if it wasn't making me so damn mad.
"You f—" Deep breath. "You idiot. Jeez, Kellan." Holding his gaze. "You didn't think it would hurt me, kill me, if she hurt you?"
He looks stunned.
"You didn't get it when I told you I'd never slept with anyone but you and that jerk in high school who actually took advantage of my grief?"
"Willow, I – "
"Shut up," I tell him again. "Just shut up."
"I didn't think it would." He stops and runs a hand over his face. "I wanted to do good here but nobody." Shakes his head and breathes. "I killed people, Willow."
"So did I," I whisper. "Does that mean I'm never going to have a life?" When he doesn't answer, and how could he, when till recently I was busy not having a life, I go on. "I thought you wanted to make up for the lives you took by living the one you have. Making a difference."
He throws his hands up, looking trapped. "There's so many doors closing now. I'm a con. I've got a record."
"You've got a second chance," I tell him. "And you're already making a difference."
He just looks at me.
"You make a difference to me. You've already made a difference in my life. I've changed things that haven't changed in four years."
He shakes his head. "College – "
"Kellan?"
Shaky breath. "What?"
"You're scared. You're arguing with yourself. Because you're scared. It's easy to tell yourself you're going to live the right kind of life and be the light and make a difference when you're inside still and you can't do anything. When you get out and it's a day to day thing and not a plan?" I look at him, holding his gaze when he meets my eyes. "It's sooo much harder."
He lets his breath out and goes back to the window. I'd go to him except for the stupid leg.
"Kellan?"
He holds a hand up without looking back at me, like I should wait.
I don't wait.
"I love you."
He doesn't have time to say it back. I'm pretty sure that's why he started to speak. But that's when my parents arrive, Mom moving fast, her hair streaming out behind her, Bruce looking white as a sheet. Even as my mother wraps herself around me in a hug that threatens to unplug me from everything I'm plugged in to, I see Bruce go across the hospital room, reach out to Kellan and drag him into a hug. It only lasts a second, and ends with mutual, forceful, masculine back thumping, but it looks like Kellan has just taken the first really deep breath he's had in years.
For the next 10 minutes or so we're all talking at once and Bruce doesn't say anything to me about what I was doing there, not that I really care anymore if he does. I guess if I want them to treat me like an independent adult it's time I stop acting like a teenager who expects to get in trouble.
Emmy shows up a few minutes later, bringing me a teddy bear and a potted plant as if I'm going to be here for a month. I'm not even sure how she found out about it. It's possible Emmy's psychic. Just kidding. I think.
The nurse shows up a little while later and forces everybody out. They go unwillingly and I think unnecessarily since I'm not sick and don't need "my rest" no matter what the nurse says about shock and the aftereffects of adrenaline.
Until they're all gone and after about one minute of feeling lost, I sink down in the bed and feel exhausted.
Which is when Emmy slips back in. "Just wanted to let you know. I texted Dex at DCTV. You're covered till you're back on your feet which they expect – "
"In about 15 minutes?" I ask.
She nods. "That was the impression." She turns, looks behind her, grins contritely and leaves.
The nurse shakes her head at me and follows Emmy, as if herding her.
Which is how Kellan gets back in, before the nurse has even gotten one room farther away.
I laugh. It feels good to know there are people who don't want to leave me.
"I can't stay," he says.
"Yes, you can," I argue.
He eyes me. "Well, I do have you in bed, which is nice, but – "
I roll my eyes. "You could talk to me."
"That's what I came back for." He leans over the bed and gives me a very long, very hot, very wonderful kiss. "I came back to tell you I do too."
I know what he's saying. But after what he's done the last few weeks, does he think he's going to get away with this?
I feign confusion. "You do too what?"
"You know."
"I hear the nurse coming." I don't. "You should tell me quick."
"You're impossible, you know that?"
"Yes. Didn't you have something to tell me?"
"How do you know that wasn't it?"
"Because that could have waited. Besides, I knew that."
He grins lazily at me. I don't think it goes deep. He's still tense, watchful, like he expects someone to come in and shove me out the window or something.
I'm a little afraid myself. I like having him here.
"The police will look for Stacee Jacobs. Willow, I'm so sorry, I never – "
I put a hand on his mouth, because this time I really do hear the nurse. "Kellan?"
His eyes find mine. He looks deep at me, suddenly serious enough my fight or flight kicks in. I'm not the girl for deep conversations. I've been no more than surface deep for four years.
I'm scared.
Kellan brushes my hair back from my face. "I love you, Willow Blake," he says.
I'm scared. But I can learn to get past it. We can lean on each other. We can learn to feel that everything isn't ruined after all.
I reach up and touch his face. He kisses my palm.
From behind him the nurse says, "Visiting hours are over." But she's smiling.
Kellan nods over his shoulder. "Jealous, I suppose?" he asks so she can hear.
The nurse snorts. "Come along, let her rest."
Because yes, I'm sure sleep will knit up the raveled sleeve of care. And the broken bone of leg. Not to mention there's no way I'm going to manage to sleep.
And the next thing I know, it's morning, bright sunlight is shining on the dazzling lino floor, and Reed Miller is standing at the foot of my hospital bed.
This is like some sort of dream, right? A recurring dream that keeps changing, just a little each time. As soon as I'm properly awake, I'll say something and Reed will accuse me of forgetting something I was supposed to do, and Kellan will appear out of nowhere, annoyed that Reed is there. They'll stalk around each other like angry, possessive wolves and –
"Are you awake?" Reed asks.
"Sort of." I might have been drifting there. Whatever they gave me, it knocked me out but good. "How did you get here?"