Page 71 of Where the Roses Bloom

“No need,” Jesse said. “His family was already been contacted, but the department wanted to break it to ya gently since you seemed to know him and you seem to have settled in with Rhett here. If it means anything…he didn’t suffer. Coroner said it was quick.”

Willow nodded, but her face didn’t move. Her expressionhad gone blank, in fact, sipping her tea like she wasn’t quite sure how to respond.

That day, when he’d driven away, she’d said he could go die for all she cared.

I didn’t think she’d meant it like that.

“Thanks, Jesse,” I said, cutting in. “For stopping by. Awful kind of you to take my girl into consideration.”

“Of course,” he said, standing. “If anything comes up, or you need a copy of the report for whatever reason…just call me direct, alright? You got my number?”

I nodded.

Jesse tipped his hat, gave Willow one last look—respectful, but lingering like he wasn’t quite sure if she’d break—and turned to go. His boots were heavy on the steps, the cruiser door groaning as he opened it. A moment later, the engine rumbled to life, and gravel cracked under the tires as he pulled away.

We sat in silence.

Willow’s mug was still balanced on her knee, fingers curled tight around it. She hadn’t taken another sip.

I reached over and covered her hand with mine.

She didn’t look at me. Just stared out past the porch, toward the horizon like she could still see the ghost of Carter’s taillights vanishing down the driveway.

“You all right?” I asked.

She didn’t answer right away. Then, softly: “I meant it, you know. What I said when he left. That I didn’t care if he never came back.”

“I know.”

“I just didn’t expect it to happen like this. I meant…my life.Not the world.”

I nodded once. “Sometimes people write their own ending long before the story’s over.”

She set the mug down on the table beside the swing, thencurled her knees up to her chest. She looked a little queasy—understandably so. Even if Carter had turned out to be a jackass, they’d spent years together…and now he was gone for good.

“I should feel worse,” she said finally. “Isn’t that awful?”

“No,” I said.

She looked up at me, eyes shining, but not from grief. It was something stranger than that, something tangled.

“He was awful to me,” she said, wrapping her arms around her knees. “And I let him be. I stayed for so long, made excuses, told myself he was just scared or lost or trying. I thought…if I loved him enough, he’d remember how to love me back.”

I didn’t say anything. Just listened.

“But he didn’t,” she continued. “And when I finally left, I thought that was the end of it. That I could just walk away and rebuild. And then I found you, and Ireallythought it was possible. But he followed me. Of course he followed me.”

I frowned, speaking up then. “Willow,” I said quietly, “did he ever hurt you?”

She met my eyes, that witch-gold dulled with disorientation. “You mean physically?”

I nodded, not knowing how I would handle her answer.

She bit her lip.

“Just once, about six months before I left,” she said. “When I told him he had to break off his affair, he shoved me against a wall. And…God, it seems stupid now, but I thought that was a sign that he actually gave a damn about me. And now he’s dead and I’m supposed to…what? Cry? Forgive him? Light a candle?”

I shook my head, reminding myself that this was abouther griefand not about my rage. I couldn’t fly off the handle in response to how he’d hurt her…I had tosupport her.