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I glance at Leo, not for confirmation, but because I can’t help it. I can’t believe he’s here. For the first time, he’s looking back at me. There’s no professional mask—just the man, tired and rumpled and sincere.

“I’m sorry, Amelia,” he says softly.

I nod numbly, then clear my throat. “Can you both step outside for a sec so I can get dressed?”

They go.

An hour later, I sit in the back of Jameson’s Lexus SUV as it eats the miles toward Los Angeles. Dawn is breaking behind us, a kaleidoscope of blue and orange through scattered white clouds.

Everything since getting dressed is a little blurry—Callum and Tiffany outside in their pajamas, giving me tight hugs and pieces of paper with their phone numbers; Charlene’s unexpectedly sorrowful face waiting in the Fish Tank; a hug and a kiss on the cheek from Nurse Nora. Then buckling my seatbelt, Jameson behind the wheel. Leo hesitating at the passenger door, then sliding in back beside me.

For the last few miles, every couple of minutes a random thought has come out of my mouth.

“He always loved bacon.”

“He played tennis twice a week.”

“Just turned sixty last year.”

“I skipped his birthday party because he invited his girlfriend.”

Finally, I turn my gaze from the passing scenery and look across at Leo. “Is this my fault?”

Jameson barks, “What? Of course not!”

Leo watches me sadly for a few moments, then reaches over and unbuckles my seatbelt. “Come here, Amelia.” The arm closest to me lifts, beckoning.

I move toward him like a flower seeking sunlight, sliding across the leather to tuck myself into his side. He finds the middle seatbelt and secures it around me, then hugs me against him.

“It’s absolutely not your fault.”

My cheek is against his chest, my arms cradled comfortably between us. Leo’s chin rests on my head. I don’t feel the seatbelt digging into my hip and stomach. I only feel him.

I think I should cry. Shouldn’t I be crying?

I don’t realize I’ve asked the question aloud until Leo says, “People process the shock of emotional pain in different ways. Some funnel overwhelming feelings into denial, anger, or violence. Others cry, or seek comfort in loved ones, or isolate.”

“Where do I belong on that list?” I murmur.

He pauses, a sigh warming my scalp. “You’re a survivor. You’re not going to run from this. I don’t think you can anymore.”

“Because of your brilliant work inside my head?”

I’m only half-joking. I honestly don’t know how I would have taken this news a month ago. Would I have shown up at the hospital? Maybe. For a few minutes at least. To comfort Jameson, to play the part of caring daughter—poorly, I might add.

And now? I just feel an amorphous sadness. For the past, for the fractured present, for words unsaid and efforts unmade. Despite my lack of relationship with my father, he’s still my dad. The only parent I have. And the thought of him suffering, not knowing if his daughter even cares… it hurts. I want to change it.

Leo finally answers my question. “Not me, Amelia,” he says gently. “It’s because of you.”

I breathe in and out, my exhales fanning the strong column of his throat. Despite everything, I feel safe. And that’s what finally brings tears to my eyes.

Because he’s not mine. Can’t be mine.

“It’s not fair,” I whisper.

His arms tighten around me. He thinks I’m talking about my father. He doesn’t know.

Against my hair he whispers back, “I agree.”