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But as I reached the little wooden gate, Raleigh said, “I didn’t handle that well today.” As though we were holding an ongoing conversation.

I snorted—and there was actually steam from my breath hitting the icy air.

Raleigh stepped away from the front door, met me on the flagstone walk, and that unexpected proximity—the warmth and energy in his nearness—made every muscle in my body lock so tight I started to shake. Such an infuriating biological response—stress overload, not excitement or pleasure to be close enough to share his frosty breath, see the tiny snowflakes in his dark eyelashes. He must have had a cold, long wait.

He was still talking in that hushed, pained voice. “It was just… Seeing you again. I’ve been thinking for days about what I would say to you, and then when the moment came, I wasn’t ready. All I could do was talk about my feelings, how it was for me.”

I curled my lip, but said nothing.

He drew in a long, unsteady breath. “The reason I keep wanting, trying, to explain, is because I don’t want you to think that I was okay with—that I didn’t care.”

What was I supposed to say to that? I didn’t even try.

Raleigh did, though. He kept hoeing that row for all he was worth. “Like if I can explain, you’ll…”

“Understand?” That voice sounded nothing like me. I don’t even know where it came from.

I could feel him trying to read my face in the gloom.

“Maybe. I don’t know. But I came here to apologize. Not explain. Not rationalize. I’m sorry, Caz. We’re all sorry. For all of it. But me most of all. Not only was I not there for you, I believed you were guilty. And you’re right. If anyone should have known better, it was me. I was wrong. And I-I wronged you.”

That little stutter. I used to think that was cute. That one tiny imperfection. It was so endearing. Once.

I waited for him to stop talking. When he finally ran out of words, I said, “I accept your apology.”

His tensed shoulders relaxed a fraction.

“It doesn’t change anything, though. Not for me. You can tell yourself you did the right thing. Then and now. That’s what matters most to you anyway. But I don’t forgive you. I never will. I hate you. I hate you as much as I loved you, and I loved you with all my—”

My voice gave out. If I lost control I’d be sobbing in huge childish gulps; I struggled and managed to hang on.

Raleigh didn’t move, but I heard something change in his breathing. “Caz.”

I got out, “There was a time I thought you could do no wrong. You were fucking Prince Charming as far as I was concerned.” I started out calm and steady, but my voice shook when I finished, “Turns out, Raleigh, you’re just another troll.”

He didn’t say a word. Just stood there, a motionless shadow in the harsh light.

I brushed past him—and even that, the closeness, the proximity brought too many memories. I fumbled open the door to my cottage, went inside.

Then I leaned against the door, heart thundering in my ears, feeling sick and dizzy and faint with the pain of it.

Was this really what you wanted?

No. Of course not. None of this was what I’d wanted.

But this was what it was. This was all that was left of the sweetest, best thing that had ever happened to me.

Snow and ashes.

I didn’t sleep much that night.

You’d think the relief and comfort of being in my own bed would guarantee I slept like a baby, but it was just the opposite. It was too dark. The whole concept of “lights out” is a joke in jail. There’s always light of some kind. You’re always under observation. And it was too quiet. There’s always noise of some kind going on in a correctional facility, some reminder that you’re not alone, not in control. I’d been desperate for quiet. But now the silence, the dark, the isolation felt threatening. It gave me too much time, too much space, to think.

It had been the same the night before.

I probably did have some form PTSD. The loss of personal autonomy and the dehumanizing conditions of life behind bars had eaten away at me, at my self-esteem, my sense of self-worth—whatever was left of it after realizing the people who knew me best thought I was capable of murder. The constant exposure to negative experiences and cynical attitudes had left me feeling helpless and hopeless. None of that was unique to me. I’d seen firsthand that’s how it was for almost everybody.

I mean, let’s be honest, I had it better than a lot of inmates. My family was paying for every possible perk and privilege. Everything a man could desire, from better blankets and pillows to the occasional special meal. I had all the money I wanted for snacks from the commissary. All the books I could read. I read things I’d never dreamed of reading: Dickens, for God’s sake. Nothing like a little Dickens for additional ambiance when you’re stuck in a jail cell. I probably got added protection, too, though it didn’t feel like it at the time.