get away. My tires slide and I cry out as the wheel skids from my grip. The car judders to the right on the shoulder and I jam on the brakes, slamming my body forward in the process. There’s a dull metallic crunch as the Jeep meets the guardrail, a second jerk of my body, the seat belt yanking me back tight and tearing the air from my lungs. Pain flares in my shoulder, my hip, my wrist.
The Chevy is still moving ahead, but in moment or two, its lights are swallowed by the rain.
“You fucking bitch!” Sweat beads my forehead, my back, between my breasts. My vision turns hazy. My heart is racing so fast it feels as though it’s not beating at all. And the air is thick and viscous. They ran me off the road. They wanted to hurt me. Or worse.
Car in park, I cup my face. Slowly—too slowly—my world stops shaking. And I shriek at the windshield as loud as I can, rage and fear turning my voice hoarse, collapsing against the seat when I’m done. I feel like a coward. I feel weak. Incapable. And it feels like hell.
I don’t know how long I sit there. Long enough for the shock to turn to numbness, long enough for the rain to cease and traffic to begin moving at a normal pace. My right wrist throbs, but I can still move it. My left shoulder aches, and I can already see the mark of the seat belt stippling my skin. My hip is sore.
I get out to inspect the damage, and the right side of my car is scraped and dented from the driver’s side door back. With a shaking hand, I call Ryan, and flashing lights appear behind me the same time he arrives. I give the officer and Ryan the same story—I slid in the rain.
“So no one else was involved in the crash?” the officer says. “The person who called it in said there were two cars.”
Here’s my chance. All I have to do is say yes. It’s provable now. There’s a witness. But I’ve told so many lies, I’m not sure how to untangle myself. And Becca’s death sits at the very heart. One misguided yes could become the end of everything. I can’t. I want to, but I can’t.
“No,” I say. “They were wrong. It was just me. My tires … The rain …”
She finishes writing up her report and gives me a copy before leaving.
“Are you sure you don’t want to go to the ER?” Ryan says. “Get some X-rays of your wrist?”
I shake my head. “I’m sure. The ER will be a waste of everyone’s time. I can tell it’s not broken. I’ll wrap it once we get home.”
“All right. Stay in the right lane and I’ll follow you.”
We make it back home without incident. On the kitchen counter is a vase with sunflowers, orange lilies, red roses, and the many-petaled flowers that resemble daisies but aren’t. The sight of them hurts. He comes behind me, circling my waist with his arms. I make myself relax as I lean against him.
“I bought them before you called me,” he says. “I’m sorry I talked to Nicole. I shouldn’t have, but I thought she’d know what was wrong. I wanted to help, that’s all.”
Once again, the story pushes at my lips, wanting out, wanting to be told, but I can’t do it. Not to him, not to anyone. I wiggle free from his grasp and give him a quick hug.
“They’re beautiful, thank you. I’m going upstairs to take a couple Advil and go to bed.”
“Want me to bring you anything?”
“No,” I say. “I’m good.”
I hold tight to the railing as I ascend, feeling his attention on my back the entire time.
* * *
After Ryan leaves for work, I stand beneath a hot shower, soaking some of the stiffness away. The marks on my shoulder and upper chest are a livid shade of purple-red. The one on my hip, too. My wrist is a touch swollen and sore, but I’m still positive it’s not broken.
In our walk-in closet, I stand in front of Ryan’s clothes. He has only one suit—a charcoal-gray all-weather we picked out together a few years ago for a wedding. I reach for the jacket sleeve and pause. I know my mom wouldn’t lie, but …
With one fluid movement, I tug the jacket free and press my face to the fabric. I smell, or at least think I