Page 48 of Duress (Birch Falls #3)

Mom looks confused about Serena leaving so abruptly, but she is gone before Mom can protest. Mom looks like hell, her face pale and her eyes shadowed by exhaustion.

She’s been at the hospital with me as long as visiting hours would allow her, but I can tell it’s taking a toll on her.

She went home to take a nap and freshen up while I was waiting to be discharged, but it is clear she wasn’t able to rest at all.

We haven’t spoken much about Bryce. She cried for what seemed like hours after I told her what happened that night at Everly’s.

She just kept saying she was sorry, like all of this was somehow her fault.

Then she kept vigil at my bedside, doting and fussing over me, making sure I didn’t want for anything, like somehow, maybe she could make it up to me.

We don’t say much as I take a seat in the wheelchair she pushes into the room, and she does one last sweep, looking for any personal items I might be forgetting.

Not that I came with much, considering how unexpected my stay was.

I just have the clothes I’m wearing, my phone, and now the letter that I keep clutched in my fist. She wheels me outside, and for the first time in days, I’m able to breathe in fresh, not-hospital air.

“Are you sure you don’t want to stay at my house for a few nights?

You’ve got those steep stairs to get up to your loft, and I worry you’ll pull your stitches.

” Mom shoots me another worried glance as she pulls away from the front entrance of the BFH.

Her small sedan creeps through the parking lot at a snail’s pace.

Mom doesn’t drive much these days, and it shows.

She is white-knuckling the steering wheel while driving ten under, and I’m not sure if she’s more worried about other drivers or jostling my injuries by hitting a speed bump too fast.

“I just really want to sleep in my bed, Mom. I’ve been kept awake by nurses poking and prodding me all hours of the night, my side hurts like a bitch, and I’m tired as fuck.

I promise all I will do when I get home is sleep.

” I shoot her what I hope is a reassuring smile, but it feels forced.

I’m not lying. I am exhausted. I’m also desperate to be alone so I can call Everly and talk to her.

After reading the letter, I have to let her know I am not going to hold her accountable for Bryce’s crimes.

Serena is right. Everly deserves the chance to find peace now.

We haven’t spoken since the altercation with Bryce, and I have no idea how she’s doing.

Hopefully Serena is right about the video testimony being enough to shut down any further investigation into Bryce’s death.

Between that and the statement I gave to Officers Brady and Vaughn while lying in a hospital bed recovering from that fucking stab wound Bryce gave me, we’ll ensure it is.

I was very adamant in letting them know he was dangerous and violent.

I may have left out the part where I took the first swing but considering everything, I don’t feel even a little bad about it.

Mom lets out an unhappy huff at my response, but when she reaches the parking lot exit, she turns in the direction leading to my apartment and not her house.

Along with the burning need to talk to Everly, to let her know I read her letter, I just need some time alone to process the maelstrom of feelings I’ve been experiencing after learning the truth of Dad’s death.

Without Mom hovering nearby, looking like she’s on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

Seeing Mom return to that dark emotional pit she buried herself in after Dad’s death is one of my biggest fears.

It’s not like he can be punished for it now, so what is the point of telling anyone?

He’s dead. His reputation is trashed. Depending on the extent of the backroom deals and blackmail he did to win cases, some of his may be reopened.

The only thing bringing that truth to light will accomplish is destroying what’s left of my mother’s grieving heart.

Knowing her son died as an abuser is a tough enough pill to swallow.

Twenty minutes later, Mom follows me through the front door, hovering behind me like I’m learning to walk for the first time and she’s going to catch me if I fall.

“Do you want me to make you some lunch? Dinner? I can cook some meals that you can just reheat so you don’t have to be up cooking.

The doctor said you need to limit your activity so you don’t pull your stitches.

You’re still anemic from blood loss. They said it will take a few weeks to get your energy back.

I can come by and help with your laundry. ”

We make it as far as my couch before I’m overwhelmed by exhaustion and Mom’s suffocating mothering.

This is the exact opposite of the husk of a woman who left me to fend for myself during my most volatile adolescent years.

I should be grateful that she’s throwing her grief into concern over me and not despair over her dead son.

I’ll take being smothered over her losing the will to live again.

“Thanks, Mom. That’d be great.” I try to hide my grimace as I slowly settle onto the couch in a comfortable position so she can stop hovering.

I guess calling Everly will have to wait.

While Mom busies herself in the kitchen, I reread Everly’s letter, desperate to feel connected to her again now that the anger poisoning me is gone.

Two hours, three BLTs, one crockpot full of chicken tortilla soup, and five forehead checks later, Mom leaves.

She only relented when I promised my only plan for the rest of the day was crawling into bed and sleeping.

I’m not sure exactly what it is she expects me to get into, but it became clear as time wore on and her worrying didn’t decrease that maybe she’s not coping as well as I thought.

I make a mental note to talk to her about touching base with her therapist ASAP.

I decide to take a quick shower to wash the hospital off before crashing.

In the bathroom, under the obnoxiously bright vanity light, I examine the angry red scar marring my left oblique.

It’s about three inches wide. Jesus, how big was that piece of glass?

I try to remember if the doctor said anything about getting the wound wet, but I’m too tired to think.

Looking in the mirror, I see the exhaustion etched onto my face.

My eyes are bloodshot and my skin pale under my facial hair, which is now more closely resembling a beard than my usual stubble. Fuck it. Shaving can wait.

After the world’s hottest shower, I’m lying in bed, staring at my phone, finger hovering over the call button.

Everly’s face, a profile picture linked to some social media account, stares at me, her mouth split into dazzling smile with the wind blowing her hair wildly around her face, framed by a bright blue ocean behind her.

I need to call her. I need to talk to her.

I need to let her know I forgive her. I need her to know that before she decides to come clean about something she can’t take back.

Before she decides to take my silence as condemnation and writes another letter of confession to give to the cops.

Pressing call, I inhale a steadying breath and wait for her to answer. After one ring, my call goes to voicemail and my heart clenches.

“ Hi, this is Everly. I can’t answer your call. Please don’t leave a message. I won’t listen to it. Text like a normal person instead.”

Dammit, Everly. I don’t want to leave a voicemail or send an incriminating text while there is an open investigation. We don’t need to raise suspicion about our relationship and cast doubt on Everly’s case for self-defense.

Instead I send a link to the song “Dig” by Incubus and hope she gets the message.