Page 45 of Wicked Promises

“Come here,” he repeats. He scoots to the edge of the bed, patting the space next to him.

I wipe at my face, but the tears keep coming. I finally sit next to him. Take his hand.

He lifts my hand and kisses the back of it. “I’m so glad you’re okay.”

There’s a thousand-pound weight on my chest. Slowly, I lie next to him. I curl my arm over his chest and lay my head on his shoulder.

He smooths my hair.

Wipes my cheeks.

He brushes my hair back from the cut on my forehead, and I feel his sharp intake of breath.

“That’s nice stitching,” he says. “Good as new, yeah? Both of us.”

“You—” I close my eyes. “No. You’re not good as new. You’re in a hospital bed. Your arm, your lung?—”

“All will heal.”

“It’s my fault,” I whisper. “And I’m sorry. I’m so sorry?—”

The guilt overwhelms me, and I choke on a sob. He hugs me closer. I fall apart, but he keeps whispering words I can’t make sense of.It’s okay, andWe’re all right. But those are just things you say to make someone feel better.

I deserve to feel bad about this.

To be shipped off to a different foster home. To never see them again.

It would be a just punishment.

Fair.

So this? This is a goodbye.

This is putting my heart in a blender because I deserve pain over any form of happiness. Caleb knew that, made sure it was drilled into my head. Even my mother knew it—it’s why she left instead of choosing to fight for me.

He lets me cry into his chest without complaint. Eventually my tears will run out, but the grief is endless.

I sit up. Lenora comes farther into the room, a box of tissues in her hand. She offers me the box, and I take a few, dabbing at my eyes.

And then I force myself off the bed and go to the window, then suck in a deep breath. The weight is still there, crushing me.

“You should get rid of me,” I say to the glass. We’re on the fourth floor with a decent view. The hospital is the tallest building around. There’s the neighborhood, then a stretch of forest, and there my line of sight ends. “I’m no good. A danger, even.”

“Why would you say that?” Lenora asks.

“For the past three months, I’ve been…” I close my eyes. “Harassed? Stalked? I don’t know. By someone I don’t know. But then on Sunday, they?—”

“Margo—”

I spin around. “It’s my fault. They hit our car to get to me. And you were hurt because of me.”

I rub my chest. I can’t breathe again. My heart takes off, galloping out of control.

My fault, it chants with every beat.

Lenora guides me into a chair. “I think you’re having a panic attack.”

My fault. My fault.