Kennedy flinches. Then she searches my face, hunting for a sign that I’m bluffing. “You don’t mean that.”
“Yes, I fucking do. I’m not going to sit here and drive myself crazy worrying about you. I’m not going to spend the rest of my life mourning you after you get yourself killed. You do this, we’re fucking done.”
A small faraway voice that sounds suspiciously like Waldo whispers that this is wrong. Manipulative. But I tell him to go screw himself, ’cause I’m doing this to keep her safe.
“I’ve made promises to people, Brent.”
Her expression is weighted with hurt. Maybe even a little fear. Like I haven’t just dented her armor, but wedged a crowbar in there and cracked it wide open, exposing all her most vulnerable parts.
But I’m not going to feel bad about that.
“Then break them. Promises are broken every damn day—it’s the way of the world.”
“There are witnesses who have risked their lives to testify against Moriotti. Who’ve gone into Witness Protection and given up everything, because I held their hand and told them it was the right thing to do. Because I swore I would put him away. And now . . . you just want me to turn my back because things are getting a little uncomfortable?”
My face feels hard, frozen—an ice sculpture image of myself. “Yes. I want you to turn your back and run the other way.”
She shakes her head softly. “I can’t . . . I can’t believe you’re making me choose.”
“Well, I am. And if that makes me an asshole, I don’t give a shit.” My fingers squeeze her upper arms. “I’m asking you to choose, and I am begging you . . . to pick me.”
The entire room goes quiet. I don’t think anyone even fucking breathes.
Then Kennedy cups my jaw in both her hands. And her voice is hushed—the way you’d talk at a funeral. “I love you, Brent. I really love you, and I know you love me. But I won’t be the woman you love anymore if I don’t do this. And if we can just—”
I don’t hear another word after that. Because I’m already walking out the door, slamming it behind me, leaving the frame splintered.
I wander the city for an hour—or three—because I’m afraid of what I’ll say to her if I go back too soon. But when I finally do make it back, I don’t have to worry about that.
The house is dark. Empty.
She’s gone.
20
“How fucked up is that?”
Early the next morning, Waldo’s eyes follow me like a spectator at Wimbledon as I pace back and forth in front of his couch, recounting my argument with Kennedy word for word. I barely slept last night—I was too busy replaying it in my head. And waiting for her to call. To tell me that she’s come over to my side of sanity and she’s dropping the case.
But my phone stayed mute.
Waldo clears his throat. “Throughout your impressive rant, you didn’t utter a single word about Kennedy’s perspective. Have you given any thought at all about what she may be feeling right now?”
Petulantly, I snort. “No.”
I’ve been too busy being pissed off to analyze how she might feel about me being pissed off.
He nods. “Let’s examine that. Kennedy is the one who was attacked and injured. She’s the one who opened herself up to you when you fought so hard to regain her trust. The one who believed you when you professed your love. The one who watched you walk away when faced with your first challenge as a couple. How do you think she feels about all that, Brent?” His fingers thrum against the arm of the chair. “Afraid? Hurt? Devastated?”
Guilt trips from a seasoned therapist are a hard thing to resist, but I manage.
“She wouldn’t feel any of that if she’d just do what I fucking tell her.”
His lips hint at a smile, but not the good kind. He reminds me of Jasper, when he’s got his mousey toy trapped between his claws—and he’s about to screw with it. “But relationships don’t work that way. You know this. Kennedy needs your support, not your direction.”
I open my mouth to argue, but he talks right over me.
“Let’s not waste our time here. How about you try being honest—and tell me what you’re really feeling.”
I rub at the frustration knotting the back of my neck. “Are you kidding, or just blind? I’m angry, Captain Obvious.”
His gaze is steady and calm. Knowing. It’s fucking annoying.
“You don’t look angry to me. You look terrified. What are you actually afraid of, Brent?”
I throw my hands out. “I’m afraid she’s going to get hurt!”
“That she’s going to be hurt, or that you won’t be able to prevent her from being hurt?”
I almost laugh. “Is there a goddamn difference?”
“Yes. One involves your concern for her. The other revolves only around yourself. The fear that you’ll fail her. That you won’t be able to protect her.”
The truth is a relentless, ugly little beast. It scratches and gnaws, driving you crazy—until you let it out.