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“You could be putting a lot of people in danger.”
“What do you want me to do, Savannah?” I snap and she falls back a step, her blue eyes filling with tears.
Goddammit.
“Look, whoever is doing this, I’m sure your fiancé will catch them. He found you, didn’t he?”
“Are you still mad about that?”
“I’m not mad about shit. I’m glad he found you.”
Her brow furrows and she takes that signature Savannah attitude stance. “But you’re mad at yourself. Mason, you couldn’t have stopped what happened any more than I could. It wasn’t a playground bully. It was life or death.”
I don’t have a response for that.
“Look, I have to go. Call me if something comes up,” I murmur and she pauses for a moment, clearly expecting me to say something else.
I can’t.
I move toward the black Bentley when it pulls up to the curb, but before I can reach for the handle, Savannah wraps her arms around me from behind, hugging me.
“I’m not mad at you,” she whispers.
And before I can even process what she said, she’s gone.
“Spit it out, Mila.”
She’s been quiet since we left the therapist’s and Mila quiet is never a good sign. Kid used to grumble in her sleep as a baby.
She turns to regard me, opens her mouth, closes it, opens it again, and takes a deep breath.
Jesus Christ.
“You going to tell Mom?”
“No . . .” she says after a long moment and turns back to the window beside her.
“She’s different,” I murmur. I can’t tell if I’m talking to myself or her. “She’s the polar opposite of Melissa—”
“Don’t. . . say her name.” She grimaces as if Melissa Gaines is Bloody Mary. Say her name three times and she pops out with a knife. “I’m not judging her.”
“You’re judging me, though, right?”
Mila cocks her head, shooting me a look.
“Not everything’s about you, Mason,” she snaps. It’s the most un-Mila thing I’ve ever seen. She glares at me for a moment, but then her face crumples and she’s back to that same resigned look of reproach. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell at you.”
“Talk to me. What’s going on?”
She shakes her head, blonde waves falling around her shoulders. “I don’t know. I just . . . I have this bad feeling that something’s going to happen and I can’t . . . I can’t stop thinking about how we all keep pretending everything’s over.”
“It’s not,” I murmur darkly. In fact, we’ve barely made it to halftime.
“She’s with you because of Melissa . . . isn’t she?”
I grit my teeth, back straightening against the leather seat of the Bentley.
“She is.”
