The Rivals - Dylan Allen Page 0,418

her eyes hands and moans.

I reach over her and grab the two aspirin and the bottle of water. “Here, take these.”

I help her sit up, and she opens her mouth to let me drop the aspirin in and sips the water.

She grimaces and swallows, but sighs and takes a few more sips of water before she lays down - a sigh of relief slipping past her parted lips as she sinks into the pillow.

She swallows hard and grimaces like it hurts.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

Her eyes, narrowed against the light, slide to me - groggy and puzzled. “Why are you still here? ”

I’d planned to ease into it, give her a chance to wake up, but I can’t make small talk when there is so much we need to talk about.

“I heard your podcast, Regan. I listened to the whole thing.”

She makes a sound that’s between a moan and a whimper, presses her lips together, and covers her eyes with her hands.

I pry them off her face and weave our fingers together in an imitation of what, I hope, we’ll do with our lives.

Then, I press our joined hands into the mattress to ground myself. Her warm, pliant hands serving as a reminder that she’s here with me and safe. And that as long as I draw breath, that’s how she’ll stay. “I’m so proud of you. Incredibly proud of you.” I say my eyes on our joined hands.

“Proud of me? For what?”

I glance up to find her watching me with worried eyes. “For being braver than I’ll ever have to be. I’m so, so sorry you went through that. I feel sick to know that he hurt you because of what I did.”

She sits up abruptly, and winces in discomfort, but her eyes are clear and direct and laser focused on mine. “Don’t say that. You were a child. He was an adult, and what he did was because he’s depraved and emotionally broken. And because he could.”

“Yeah, but I stabbed him. I pressed the silent alarm and then left you face the music. Shit, Regan. I’m sorry...”

“No. Please. I can’t She tries to free her hand and I let it go immediately.

She groans and flops back onto the pillows and flings an arm over her face. “See, this is why I didn’t tell you. Or anyone else.” she laments. “I can’t carry the burden of your guilt on top of mine. And unlike yours, mine isn’t imagined.”

“Imagined?”

She lifts her arm a fraction, and peers at me. “Yes, imagined. Even if you’d shot him and wounded him for life, what he did isn’t your fault.” she half yells and then shrinks, grabbing her forehead in agony.

“Hey, take it easy,” I stroke her shoulder.

She sighs, and shakes my hand off. “I’m not fragile. Don’t treat me like I am. What happened to me shouldn’t happen to anyone. But I got out of there. I got my life back. I’m a survivor. Not a victim. You should be afraid of me. Do you know the kind of strength it takes to put one foot in front of the other after a piece of your soul is irrevocably damaged? I won’t ever be the same. But that’s not necessarily a bad thing. I hate it took my best friend dying to realize that. But Stone, I survived.”

I take her hand in mine again and trace the network of veins, smile at the way her fingers curl into my palm. I’m relieved she doesn’t resent me. But it’s going to take me a little while longer to get over my guilt. I wish I could get my hands on that fucker.

“What happened to him?”

“He’s dead.” Her voice is sharp, and she draws the sign of the cross over her chest.

I chuckle, but I’m unsettled. “What was that about? Are you not sure?” I demand.

“Please, lower your voice,” she moans.

“Sorry,” I mutter and take a deep breath. “Well, are you sure?” I ask, my voice softer, but no less demanding.

“I don’t know,” she sighs deeply.

“How come?” I keep my voice calm, speak slowly to hide the storm clouds gathering in my mind.

“My grandfather is the source of that, so we don’t believe him. The woman, Rebecca, was released from prison five years ago. But, there’s no trace of her.”

“And what about him?” I urge her. If that man is still alive…

“My mother is looking into it. I haven’t asked though. Honestly… I try my best not to think about him. And I’m more concerned