Page 73 of Wicked Promises

She shrugs, and I catch a mischievous gleam in her eye.

Honestly, I need some personality other than serene from her. Still, I take her expression to mean,maybe. Maybe I’ll read it aloud. Maybe we won’t even crack the notebook open.

Lenora is parked at the curb, waiting for me. She looks at me expectantly when I slide in, but I just shake my head.

“Right, right, I shouldn’t ask.”

I laugh and tuck the notebook into my bag. “It is supposed to be confidential.”

“Well, fine. But did you find it helpful?”

I think back on my conversation with Dr. Sayer. The more I think about it, the more I like her definition of her job: to give perspective. She’s not out to heal or fix me—not that I can tell anyway.

“It was,” I decide.

“Good. Robert is home, eagerly awaiting our arrival.”

I straighten. “He is? Already?”

“Yep. He got a clean bill of health from the doctors. As long as he takes it easy, he should be okay to return to work next week.”

I touch my forehead. The stitches came out this morning, before therapy, but they said to keep a butterfly bandage on it for another day. Under it, though, is a new pink scar.

And I’ve never been so excited to wash my hair without inhibition.

It starts snowing when we’re almost home. My muscles tense, and I grab on to the door.

“Margo, are you okay?”

It was snowing when Robert and I crashed. It was easy to push down the fear of vehicles when it was Riley driving me, or Ms. McCaw. Or Eli. The skies have been clear, the roads dry.

I lean forward, eyeing the side streets. A car could come out of nowhere and sideswipe us.

She slows our car until we’re crawling down the street. “Honey, breathe.”

I take in a ragged breath. It’s snowing hard and fast. I close my eyes.

“Can we just get home?” I whisper.

“Absolutely.”

She reaches over and holds my hand the whole way back, and it helps. It’s her form of a lifeline—and maybe she understands my sudden anxiety.

I wonder how long it took her to get into a car after Isabella died.

“We’re here,” she announces, turning into the driveway.

I open my eyes and release her hand, embarrassment flushing my cheeks.

“I’m sorry.”

Her eyebrows furrow. “You don’t have to apologize.”

Nodding, I get out of the car. The embarrassment is replaced by anticipation, and I rush ahead of her to get in the house.

“Hey, kiddo,” Robert calls. He walks back toward the living room with a glass of water. “Let me just put this down…”

He sets it on a side table, then holds out his arms.