Page 107
It hurts because I believe him. A lie would have been easier—an Adrien who was simply misinformed, who would have been my rescuer. Instead, he confesses the possibility that he might still have failed me.
A single tear escapes, trailing down my cheek. “His name was Steven.”
It’s as if I’ve hurled a grenade into the soft air between us. Adrien’s entire posture snaps to attention, so quickly it frightens me.
“What?” His voice is flat, but there’s a darkness there I’ve never heard before.
I swallow against the dryness in my mouth and wet my lips. “The boyfriend. The one who put me in the hospital.”
Adrien says nothing. His face becomes terrifyingly blank—empty in a way much worse than anger, though I’m not sure how to explain it.
“Steven, what?” he finally asks.
My tongue catches. “I—don’t know.” I do know.
“Kamden.”
I think of the gun, the murderer friends, and the fact I’m tied to a bed.
“I don’t know,” I repeat.
He grits his teeth, then sighs, releasing the tension. “That’s alright.”
He doesn’t push. Not yet. But I can tell he is filing it away.
I hug the comforter tighter, burying my chin in it. “So what happened after you checked? When I was nine?”
He studies me for a long moment, eyes flicking over my tangled hair and damp cheeks, before dropping his gaze. “I kept telling myself I’d check again, but I never did. I heard things occasionally. Knew you were still enrolled somewhere, knew Sherry still had custody. Then I started doing work that made staying away from you feel safer.”
“Kidnapping people?” I ask quietly.
He gives a small, humorless smile. “Among other things. But yes, when I started working for who I do now.”
I can’t help the ache it causes inside me. “You chose them.”
His face stills, like a photograph frozen in grief. “I chose that life.”
“Instead of me.” The accusation slips out softer than I intended, and so needy it’s pathetic, like some little kid asking why his dad chose work over coming to his school play.
I hate myself for it.
“I’m sorry, Kamden.”
“Stop saying that,” I mumble, thinking about the other question I’ve been circling—a question I’m terrified to ask because once I do, I can’t unhear the answer.
But I think I need to know.
“If I hadn’t been with Wade that morning, would you have ever come?”
The silence that follows presses against my eardrums, louder than any shouting could ever be.
He doesn’t answer right away. The pause stretches, cutting deeper than any rejection he could utter.
My lower lip quivers. “Would you?”
His breath catches. “I don’t know.”
I look away before he can see how much it stings. Eleven years of absence have answered for him.
