other women thought the same, too. Then this happened.”
“This can’t be completely left field. You had to have a clue.”
“Don’t judge me,” he snaps. “She was fine. She was happy. She didn’t dance a goddamn jig into the dining room every morning, but she was ready to go home. Don’t blame me for what happened. This isn’t my fault.”
It never is.
“You should’ve called me before you took her back. You should’ve paid closer attention.”
“Fuck you. I did the best I could. You don’t know what I’ve been through. You’ve got—”
A burst of muted noise from inside steals my attention. A smothered thud. I swing around to the house, finding Sarah rushing for the hall.
“I’ve gotta go.” I speak over Benji, then disconnect the call and run inside, sliding into the hall as Sarah grabs for the handle of Penny’s door. “Stop.”
She stiffens, glancing over her shoulder to meet my gaze while crashing and banging thunders from inside the bedroom. “Let me go to her.”
“No. Back off. Or go home.”
“Listen to me.” She speaks in a rush. “I have experience with this. I can empathize with her loss.” She raises her hands in surrender. “Storming in there, flying by the seat of your pants, will only cause more damage.”
Christ.
I don’t know how to help. All I have is instinct and that adamant, demanding pulse is telling me to get my ass in there.
“Luca?” she begs. “Do you really want to risk hurting her more than she already is?”
I clench my fists. “You don’t know that I will.”
“You’re a raging bull—face stark, hands clenched, shoulders stiff. You’re going to scare her.”
Fuck. I try to calm myself, attempting to relax my muscles and breathe deeper.
It’s pointless.
I’m mindless over Penny. Mindlessly failing.
Another scream carries from inside the room, a heavy thud following.
“All I’m asking for is ten minutes.” Sarah twists the door handle. “I can deal with this.”
Maybe she can. Maybe it would’ve been better for her to manage the recovery from the very first day we returned from Greece. Maybe all I’ve done is fuck Penny’s life even more.
But I can’t bring myself to give Sarah permission to take over. All I can do is turn on my heels and stride back where I came from, my pride and a truckload of hostility clogging my fucking throat.
8
Penny
I throw the bedside lamp across the room, the shade fracturing on impact, the base smashing before it falls to the carpet in fragments.
Abi’s gone.
Dead.
It’s all my fault.
I left her with a stranger.
I gave up when I should’ve been protecting her, and now her death doesn’t even make sense. She didn’t kill herself. She wouldn’t.
If the news report featured Lilly maybe I could digest the information. Lil was always the weakest. The one unwilling to fight.
But not Abigail. She had fire in her soul. Determination in her belly. She wouldn’t take her life when she’d just returned to her family.
I refuse to believe the lies, my pulse ramping higher the more my mind conjures memories of her parents on the television. Their tears. Their anguish.
I grab the bedside clock and haul it across the room, the weight thunking into the plaster to leave a dent.
The past returns to haunt me. Images of Abi pummel my mind. I can still feel her. Can still smell the sweet vanilla of her shampoo.
I yank out the top drawer of the nightstand and throw that, too, this time releasing a war cry as the projectile leaves my fingers.
The outside mania quietens the voices within. It soothes the rage. Momentarily.
I scream as I throw another drawer. And another.
“Penny?” The door opens, making me pause as Sarah cautiously glances inside. “Can I come in?”
“No,” I pant, my chest heaving.
She ignores me, walking forward, her steps cautious as she closes the door behind her.
“Get out.” I grab the last drawer in the nightstand and heft it at the wall, the hard thwack no longer bringing relief.
“Talk to me.” She continues toward me, not stopping until she reaches the side of the bed. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”
I shake my head, stumbling backward to the window.
I want to tear my hair out. To scratch at my eyes. To claw at my skin. I want anything and everything to take away the violence inside me, the toxicity molding into my DNA.
“What hurts the most?” she asks.
That’s the thing—I don’t even know. Is this grief? I’m not hurt. I’m livid. The anger is marrow-deep. It accompanies every inhale. Every thought. It’s in the past, the present, the