Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 88114 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88114 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
I step out into the sunshine to make my calls. As the phone rings, I look at the sky, the big blue sky, and wonder what kind of monster would poison a woman with mercury.
A desperate, sick monster.
One that deserves to die.
Chapter 22
Tara
Cait’s name is carved in simple looping letters on the gray headstone with flowers all around it. Her birthday and deathday seem so simple and so short. Barely a life, barely enough time. Kellen puts his arm across my shoulders and hugs me tight.
“You okay?” he asks quietly.
“I think so. I kept meaning to come visit, but—” I stop myself and shake my head. “It never felt right.”
“I know what you mean. I don’t come as often as I should. A few times a year at most. She would’ve wanted us to move on, but I don’t think either of us have.”
“I’m not sure I ever will.”
“Don’t say that.” His grip tightens and he kisses my cheek. “I didn’t bring you here to make you feel worse, you know.”
“I want to move on, but I don’t want to feel like I’m leaving her behind. It’s not fair that she’s gone and I’m still around, and sometimes I wonder if we switched places, and I was supposed to be the one in the ground. She was always so alive and bright, and I was just—” I stop talking as the tears lodge in my throat.
“Stop it,” he says, hugging me. “You’ve got to stop comparing yourself to her. Cait was a beautiful person, but she was also flawed. She didn’t die because of you. If anything, I bet you kept her around much longer than she would’ve stayed on her own. My father’s the one that drove her to this. Not you.”
“I know,” I say, sniffling and wiping my face. “God, I didn’t want to cry.”
He wraps both arms around me and hugs me close. I cry against his chest, standing in the middle of the graveyard, surrounded by other headstones, other people, other wants and dreams and lives, and all I can think about is my friend. I miss her so much and wish I could see her one more time, but being here does feel good, like it’s giving me a sense of closure to visit her grave. I have a good cry, and when I’m done, Kellen wipes my tears.
“When I was sixteen and Cait was eleven, we were out back exploring the rocks and climbing around when we saw this stray cat lying at the bottom of a short ravine. It was pretty steep, and I told her to get back, but she didn’t listen. She climbed down, slipped halfway, and fell five or ten feet to the rocks below. She hit hard, rolled, and got up with some a few scrapes and bruises, and she grabbed that cat and held it as she went around and climbed out the far side. I had to haul her up because she wouldn’t let go of the damn cat.”
“She never told me about that.”
“Well, it doesn’t have a happy ending. The cat didn’t make it. I guess it broke something internal when it fell and it just—well, anyway, it didn’t last long enough for us to get it to a vet. Cait was so distraught and she cried for days until Dad finally had enough and beat her until she stopped. But that was Cait, wasn’t it? Willing to jump down into a ravine to save a random stray even if the odds were stacked against her.”
I smile to myself and take a deep breath. “I feel like I was that stray. Do you know how we met?”
“I thought you were friends from school.”
“We were. I was the new girl. My mom moved us to this area when I was little and Cait was the only person that was willing to be my friend. I guess I stuck with her ever since after that. I was scared and felt lost and overwhelmed, and Cait took me under her wing.”
“I feel lucky that we got to know her.”
“Yeah, I do too.”
He kisses me gently and we stay there looking at her headstone for another few minutes before we begin back toward the car. He’s quiet as we go, and something feels light inside of my chest. There’s always been a darkness there burrowed down deep into my guts, but coming here with him and talking about her seems to have made the horror and sadness fade, if at least only a little bit. But that little bit is enough to keep going.
I don’t deserve this. If anything, I should be the object of his ire and hatred, and instead, he’s treating me like I’m really his wife, and it’s liberating. I’m starting to think of myself as a person again instead of as a whipping post and a failure and a ghost haunting the old place where my friend used to live. I can hold on to the memories, but I can release the guilt that’s clogging my heart.