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Claire could only shrug. “Maybe they’ll go easy on him if he talks. He did try to save me in the end. It was enough to distract Dad so Seth could get the gun away.”

“You must hate me for thinking about sticking by Marty through this after what he did to you.”

“No. It’s your choice. Just don’t expect me to turn up for Thanksgiving dinner in prison.”

Besides, Claire didn’t have any room for hatred in her heart, not for Clem, even after everything. It hadn’t been easy growing up without a mom; everything Claire needed to learn came from Clementine, who’d still been growing up herself. That, all while trying to navigate their dad’s authority, had put them both in an impossible situation. Clem coped in the only way she knew how.

“No prison dinners, got it,” Clem said. “We’ll see if we even make it that far. Till then, we’ve got some thinking to do about us now. Us and Sully.”

“Clem. I’m not staying in Fairview.”

Although Clem looked torn, she nodded. “Worth a shot.”

“If everything’s ours now, we should sell it. The bar. The farm. Everything.”

“Even the farm? But…” Clem shook her head. “You’re right, I can’t run that thing. Maybe Sully doesn’t need to know his family history like that. Fairview’s my only home, though. I can’t leave.”

“I know, but I have to.”

“I know you do, hon.” Clem drew out a sigh and stood. “As much as I’d love to eat more of your time before you pass out again, there’s someone else here for you. Detective Winslow’s been sleeping in the waiting room.”

Claire’s heart squeezed. “What time is it?”

“Eleven a.m., but he stayed up all night till his poor eyes couldn’t take it anymore. Guess it’s true about you two, huh?”

Claire nodded. The sedative wasn’t strong enough to take away the sorrow she felt for what she’d put Seth through.

She only hoped he could forgive her.

“I told you he was handsome…” A smirk played at Clem’s lips, but slowly dropped off. “But I don’t blame you for not trustin’ me. Anyway, I’ll send him in.”

Moments later, Seth appeared in the doorway. Claire tried to take him in—his bruises, his bandages—but before she had a second to process it, he was hugging her. A breath of air rushed into her lungs, warming her, waking her.

He lifted her slightly off the bed, and though her arms felt like noodles, she tried to hug him back. “I thought we were dead,” he spoke into her hair. “I really, really thought we were dead.”

So had she. She was so relieved to be with him again, she could float away right then and there.

After he pulled away, he sank into the seat beside her bed, held both her hands in his, and kissed them. A crimson splotch had exploded in the white of his left eye, and a couple stray tears fell down his cheeks.

“You’re crying,” she said, brushing a tear with her thumb, into the short facial hair he’d let grow in. It made him look disheveled and handsome. She knew it would. He took both her hands in his again and wiped his eyes with his shoulder.

“I saw it,” he said, and she knew what he meant. He blinked out more tears and held her hands to his forehead, almost in a prayer. “Claire, I’m so sorry.”

She shook her head, smiling slightly. “It’s over now.” She didn’t want it to feel so heavy between them, not now, not after they’d already been through enough. “You know, if you can believe it, I’ve never shot a gun before.”

He stared at her for a moment before he understood, and a smile split his face. “Really? I thought you were a pro.”

She gently nudged him, laughing, appreciating his beauty when he laughed back, even with all those bloody bruises and stitches on his face.

“I was serious,” he said. “That recoil was expertly handled.”

“Don’t make fun of me.” She pouted and touched the bandage in the center of her forehead. “I almost gave myself a concussion.”

He cupped both her hands again. “Well. You also saved my life.”

At that, her attempts to keep the mood light were doused in gasoline and lit aflame. Her chest felt impossibly tight with shame. “How can you say that? I lured you out there. You’ll never understand how sorry I am.”

“You weren’t yourself. I don’t blame you, Claire. I’d relive that hell over and over if it meant you’d be free.”