Page 73 of You'll Never Know

“You’d better. Every night.”

I pop an eyebrow at him. “You know I won’t be able to do that.”

“Once a week, then.”

“I’ll try.”

He frowns. “I’m serious, Bay. If I don’t hear from you at least once a week, I’m going to the cops.”

I tense. Bringing the police into this is one of my non-negotiables and he knows that. We’ve only discussed it a dozen times. No cops no matter what happens. But with what I’m putting him through, I suppose I can give him this. “Okay, fine. Once a week. But do me a favor, will you?”

“What’s that?”

“Go home and focus on Owen for a while. I’ll be fine.”

“I wish I could believe that,” he says before pausing like he has something else to say.

I wave my hand. “Go on. Out with it.”

“It’s just … I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to that.”

“What?”

“Your new face.”

I mime a pained expression. “You don’t like it?”

“I love it, actually,” he says with a grin. “With your ugly mug, I can’t believe you didn’t do it sooner.”

“Oh, shut up,” I say, laughing as I slap his shoulder before pulling him into a hug. “Bye, Ben.”

“Bye, Bay,” he says, squeezing me. “You be careful. And don’t forget to call me.”

“I will,” I say, squeezing him back. “Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

He gives me a final wave as I pull my suitcase from the backseat and shut the door. And then he’s gone, his car swallowed in the traffic. I’m hit with a sudden rush of sadness. My brother is about all I have left to love in this world. Even if something happens to me, I hope he’ll be okay.

I turn away from the curb, and a man barges past me, banging his suitcase into mine without a word.

Somewhere to my left, someone barks out a laugh.

“You’re shitting me!” a woman screeches behind me into her phone. “You can’t be serious!”

Her voice blends with other conversations—people laughing and shouting and clacking by in shoes that smack against the cement like jackhammers. I haven’t flown since the wreck, haven’t ventured to the airport once. Just being here, standing in this crowded space, makes my skin crawl.

I suddenly wonder if Ben was right. Maybe I shouldn’t be doing this. It feels overwhelming—all these people, all this noise. My heart flutters, and I take a deep breath and try to slow it, but it only beats faster in response. How can I navigate the complexities of a relationship with the man who killed my family if I can’t even walk into an airport without suffering a nervous breakdown?

It’s not too late, Ben’s voice whispers. You can still change your mind.

My fingers drift toward my pocket and my phone. All I have to do is dial his number. All I have to do is call and ask.

And then I see her.

Zane crouches in front of Cora several yards ahead. He’s holding his daughter by the shoulders, speaking softly with his head in a tilt. She trembles in place as her mother, Maria, stands behind her, biting off a sob. Zane says something that makes the girl laugh, and then she half-thrusts herself, half-falls into his arms. He holds her there and runs his hand over the back of her head.

I draw closer and take her in. Cora’s eyes are a deep, liquid brown. One tracks slightly outward while the other battles to focus through a slow series of blinks. Her face is pale and slack, and her lips move as if caught in a constant mumble. She tilts forward when Zane pulls back—like she’s about to collapse—but Zane steadies her and then presses her forehead to his. They remain like that for a long moment before Maria swoops in and helps Cora into the car—something infant-like about the girl’s motions, something so … helpless.