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"Do you think it was an accident?" I whisper. As soon as the words leave my lips, I feel like a fool. Raising my hand, I press it against the massive window in Julian's office, keeping my back turned to all of them.
Julian clears his throat, and although I can't see his eyes, I have a feeling they just glanced at Kent and Harper. "It could be."
"It could also not be," I mutter, tapping my nail against the thick glass. "Why do you think he did it?"
"I'm not sure why," Julian replies, his voice tight.
Slowly turning to face him, I say, "Don't lie to me." He's got to know something. He's worried, not sitting but rather standing with his legs spread wide like a linebacker bracing for an attack. He's always been my pillar of support, but now he even looks shaken.
"Just tell me," I press, then glance at Harper. "Do you know?"
She shakes her head. "I need to get back to my computer and see what Daniel has found. If Andrew planned this, then there has to be a trail." She grabs my hand and squeezes it. "I'll find it."
I nod and look back towards Julian.
He reaches up and squeezes the muscles in his neck. "I have a theory, but those can often be proven wrong," he begins. "He knows the cameras have been found. This could be his retaliation."
A force hits me as my next exhale knocks the breath from my lungs. My knees wobble, and then Julian is at my side, guiding me to sit down.
"This is my fault."
"No!" His voice is firm. "His actions are his own, Poppy." He cups my face, eyes digging deep into mine as if he's trying to catch an impossible prey that keeps slipping his snare.
"We removed the cameras," I whisper. "Did we provoke him?"
"Andrew's family is politically motivated. This could have nothing to do with you. It was just a theory. You wanted me to be honest, and I was, but if you're going to try to take the blame for his actions, I can't continue to be honest with you, Pumpkin." I jerk from his words. "Listen to me, if the table was turned and I kept trying to take the blame, what would you tell me?"
He's right. He's just trying to shield me. "It's not the same."
"Yes, it is." He presses his forehead to mine. "Please trust me. Know that I'm never going to let him touch you," Julian vows over my trembling lips.
I close my eyes and nod. "Just promise me you won't keep things from me. I need your honesty, Julian." He pulls back, and something flashes in his grey eyes before he kisses me gently.
"I'll keep you safe, Pumpkin.”
***
A zombie has more life than I do; at least, that's how I feel as I try to finish packing for our work trip to D.C. while Julian cooks us dinner. I glance at the sweater hanging limp in my hand. Dead... like Kimberly. Morbid but true. No matter what Julian and Harper say, I will carry the guilt.
The TV is on, and I've kept the volume low so Julian won't hear it. He'd only come in and try to chase away my demons. "The community reels today as search teams have confirmed the worst fears regarding the disappearance of the Prescotts' private plane," the news reporter says. "Despite an exhaustive search, officials have reported finding debris from what appears to be the Prescott family's private plane, although we are awaiting official confirmation. The chances of finding survivors are becoming increasingly slim, a devastating blow to hope that had been clinging on by a thread."
My grip on the clothes tightens. The reporter's voice, usually a distant echo, now feels intimately close, each word a heavy stone added to the burden of grief.
"In response to this tragic discovery, the Sinclair family has released a statement asking to be kept in your thoughts and prayers. Kimberly Prescott, fiancée to Andrew Sinclair, and their wedding—deemed the social event of the year—was just months away," the reporter continues, shifting to display a picture of Andrew and Kimberly. I step closer and search her eyes. It's a posed picture; that much is clear, but how posed is it? Was she really happy, or was her smile a mask?
"Pumpkin," Julian says as he enters the room. His eyes flick to the TV and the report.
I feel like I have to explain, "I just wanted to see if they found anything."
He rolls his lips and nods. "Dinner's ready." His gaze shifts to the luggage. "How's the packing going?"
I move, and my toes tingle from having stood in place for so long. "Good. Almost finished." I fold the sweater and tuck it inside the luggage. "Do you think we will be safe?" I blurt out.
His steps close the distance between us.
"I mean," I clear my throat, trying to explain without sounding like a paranoid person clinging to the last strings of her sanity, "Do you think it is safe to fly? I know we have to go, but we have to fly, and it’s in D.C., of all places. What if we run into Andrew?"
He squeezes my hands. "I’ve thought of everything, Pumpkin. The plane is safe, and the Sinclairs are on their way to the Bahamas. Listen, I would cancel—"
