Page 184 of Trailer Trash

For the first time, I understand how far from reality he has fallen.

Clark was right about one thing.

Killian needs help I can’t give him.

50 - Epilogue

Harlow

Six months later

Killian gazes down at me. Water cascades down his sculpted body as we stand under an outdoor shower. The sand and salt wash from our bodies. It’s been a relaxing day at the beach. I spent most of it under an umbrella, reading a book and stealing glances at Killian. I’m especially vigilant today, and for good reason.

The water groups his dark eyelashes, making his eyes more expressive and haunting than they already were. I reach up and tenderly stroke under his cheekbone, tracing the long scar. It’s so much worse. He cut it deeper the second time. The already existing scar tissue made reconstruction harder for the surgeon.

Yet, I absolutely love it.

“I fucked up,” he says calmly. “I shouldn’t have cut it twice.”

I don’t nod.

Instead, I drag my fingertips over his jaw and to his throat. “I’m just grateful this wasn’t cut.”

“You and me both,” he responds, his smile more crooked than before.

My heart skips a beat. I can’t get over how close I was to losing him.

I still have flashbacks. If Jagger drove too slow, if he and I waited for someone to open the front door instead of walking inside, if we spent one moment longer talking to the woman in the kitchen — All of those things could have delayed us and Killian wouldn’t be here today.

He survived.

Hell, I survived.

My fiancée had a psychotic break. Twice. Once when Asher died, and another when he thought I died. He was admitted to a psychiatric facility under court order. It took a month to convince him I wasn’t a hallucination. It took two months for Asher’s ghost to quit talking and three months for him to disappear.

At month four, doctors determined he was no longer an immediate danger to himself or others, and he was released.

“Are you scared of me now?” he asks.

“Yes!” I say and chuckle. “I’ve been cautious with you since the day we met.”

“I’m better now,” he says with indifference, like he’s a regular guy.

I will give him some credit. He’s stayed sober. He isn’t showing signs of psychosis.

But still—

“I found a camera in our bedroom,” I say.

He shrugs.

“Did you put a tracker on my car? Because you asked me how Keysha was, and I didn’t tell you I visited her.”

“My doctors said that isn’t a problem.”

I laugh mockingly. “You didn’t tell them about your stalking habits!”

He swipes a lock of hair behind my ear. “I can’t stop. Is it so bad?”