leads, but I don’t think they’re even working on the case anymore.” She settles her hand over mine. It’s cold and clammy. “Don’t you want to know who killed your brother?”
I did, once. Now all I want is for Brogan to wake up. The doctors tell us not to hold out hope for that, but it’s happened before. I’ve read books about men who’ve woken from PVS—medical speak for persistent vegetative state—and could recite everything that was said to them during their days trapped inside their own minds.
I would go the rest of my life without having answers about that night if I could have a miracle for Brogan.
But I don’t say that. I open my mouth and force air into my reluctant lungs. If I’ve learned anything in the last three and a half months, it’s that sometimes the best and only thing I can do is to take the next breath.
“I wish the police would do more,” she says.
“Me too.” The police chalked the hit-and-run up to “gang violence” quickly. They had nothing to go on, and everyone was satisfied with the answer but the Barretts and me. I told the police all I could, but they didn’t have much to form any sort of investigation if they’d even cared to—and they didn’t. It was dark. A big, dark-colored SUV came speeding up over the hill and killed my brother and destroyed the better part of Brogan’s brain.
Mrs. Barrett wants answers. The only ones I have she wouldn’t want to hear. His drunken pleas. His anger. His refusal to let me out of his car until I promised not to leave him. The bruises he left on my arm because I tried to leave anyway. Then Nicholas’s fists when he came to rescue me. A grieving mother shouldn’t have to know any of that. “I’m sorry,” I whisper.
Her cold hand squeezes mine. “It’s not your fault.”
If only that were true.
Arrow
“We saw Brogan yesterday,” Chris says, eyeing me as I put the burgers on the grill. Dad invited the team over to celebrate the end of finals week, so now it’s my job to entertain them and pretend everything’s normal.
“How’s he doing?” I have to force the question out and pretend it doesn’t hurt like a bitch.
Chris shrugs. “Not good.”
“He doesn't even look like himself anymore,” Keegan says. “He’s skinny and pale and he just sits there with his mouth hanging open and . . . What?” he asks when everyone turns to stare at him.
“A little delicacy?” Mason suggests.
Keegan lifts his palms. “What? It is what it is. No one here really thinks he’s coming back from this. Am I wrong? Except maybe Mia, but she’s inside.”
“You’re such an asshole,” Mason mutters.
Chris takes a breath, and we exchange a look. Chris comes to stand at the grill by me. “Ignore K,” he says, so only I can hear.
I swallow hard. “He’s not saying anything I didn’t know, right?”
Chris nods and shoves his hands into his pockets. “I still hate hearing it. Brogan was one of the good ones.”
“The best,” I say, and my voice cracks on the word best as if I’m going through puberty all over again. Fuck these regrets. If I could take back the things I said to him that night—if I could change everything . . .
“Don’t do that,” Chris says.
“What?”
“Don’t paint him as a saint because of what happened. We all love him and what happened sucks, but don’t beat yourself up for fighting with him that night. He cheated on Mia. He wasn’t a saint.” Chris’s jaw is hard, and I get the impression he’s been waiting awhile to have a chance to say that.
“My shrink wants me to visit,” I admit. “I’m stuck in this fucking house all the time, but she got my probation officer to agree to let me go see Brogan.”
“That’s great,” Chris says.
“I don’t think I’m going to. I saw him in the hospital and visited a few times before the Barretts moved to Indy. The doc thinks I’m more likely to start using again if I don’t resolve shit between me and Brogan.” Grunting, I shake my head. “As if we can have a conversation or something.”
“Mia thinks he knows what’s going on around him, and from what I’ve read about PVS, I’m not sure, but . . .” He takes the spatula from my hand and flips the burgers before I burn them completely. “It’s for you as much as him. You need to say