Page 107 of Bad For Me (Rock Canyon, Idaho 5)

t, calling her name, until she reached the parking lot, where she bent over and retched. Callie saw Everett’s boots through her legs as he came up behind her and began rubbing her back.

“Callie . . . ” he said.

“I just want to go. Please,” she said.

“Sure.”

She stood back up, and the world was spinning. She leaned against Everett, and he wrapped his arm around her waist. When they reached the truck, he handed her a bottle of water, and she took a large gulp and then used it to rinse her mouth.

Everett backed up the truck, and they were on their way back to the highway. Callie gripped her hands in her lap, trying to stop their tremors.

Why didn’t she feel better? If anything, she felt worse. She had unleashed the fury on the man who had ruined her life, but instead of feeling calm and filled with all kinds of perspective, she just wanted to hit something. She wanted to scream and rage and fuck.

Everett didn’t try to tell her he was proud, which she appreciated. She didn’t think she could take a pep talk, especially when she didn’t feel like she’d accomplished anything.

Instead, Callie stared out at the land, bare and flat, with heavy gray clouds hanging over, casting shadows along the yellow dirt. Even the land felt angry. Maybe that was just her projecting.

“Did he apologize?”

“Of course he did,” Callie said hollowly.

“What did you say?”

“That he hadn’t been punished or suffered enough to warrant my forgiveness.” Everett remained silent, and she turned toward him. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“I tell you that I don’t forgive the man who murdered my mother, and you don’t have anything to say.”

“It’s not my place—”

“Just fucking say it!” she yelled.

Everett’s face flushed. “Fine. You told me he had a psychotic break and didn’t know what he was doing. If that’s the case, it’s tragic and horrible, but it was also an accident.”

Callie burst into hysterical laughter. “My mother’s murder has been called many things, but never an accident.”

“I’m just saying, I’ve known a lot of good men who—because of an undiagnosed medical condition—have done horrible things.”

Callie clenched her fists, wishing she could take a swing at him. “What happened to this being his fault, not mine?”

“It is on him. He should have followed through with treatment, but . . . ”

“But what?”

He looked over at her, regret heavy in his eyes, like he knew what he was about to say was going to piss her off. “No man wants to admit he’s weak, especially when it’s to someone he loves.”

The air in the cab was suffocating her, and she needed to get out. “Pull over.”

“What?”

“Pull the fuck over!” she screamed.

Everett took the next off-ramp and pulled onto a dirt road.

“Callie—”

She climbed out of his truck, slammed the door, and started running. She didn’t want to be around him and listen to his sympathy. His understanding. Fuck understanding; how the hell could he rationalize what Tristan had done?