Page 35 of Echoes in the Storm

“You say that, and yet you still blame yourself?”

Cammie pushes her plate aside, setting both elbows on the table so she can cover her face with her hands. “Because I should have been more careful, Duke. I should have thought about it when I took the cold and flu medicine.”

My appetite lost, I lean back in my seat and pick the article up to read it again. According to the report, Cammie was on a nightly dose of prescribed medication for insomnia at the time. After taking additional drugs for a head cold during the day, the ingredients reacted and left her drowsy and unable to be roused when she fell asleep. Her daughter—theirdaughter—opened the front door and made her way to the road where the accident with the car occurred. The driver was cleared of the charges of careless driving causing death considering the open road speed limit, and the hedge that obscured the driveway meant she had no chance of reacting in time to avoid the collision.

“Cammie.”

“What?” she moans, still hiding behind her hands.

“Look at me.”

A moment passes where I wonder if she’s going to up and walk out, yet she finally drops her hands with a sigh revealing bloodshot eyes.

“Are you listening?”

She nods.

I hold her gaze, make sure I don’t blink, and say, “It. Wasn’t. Your. Fault.”

Her nostrils flare, those perfectly sculpted brows twitching as she slowly but surely begins to shake her head. “You don’t get it, do you?”

“I think I do.” My knife and fork hit the plate with more force than I intended as I slice into the nearly cold roast. “You were a mother trying to feel well enough to care for the child she loved above anything else. Also, a mother who needed sleep to function. Nothing unusual, Cam. Nothing to feel bad about.”

Her jaw hangs as she stares at me finishing my meal. A few choked sounds come out, but other than that, I’ve got her.

Thistime she walks out. Her chair scrapes across the floor as she rises with a huff, abandoning her unfinished dinner to stride from the room. Using the side of my finger, I wipe up the last of the gravy, not wasting an ounce of this meal while I give her a moment. Her frustrated howls echo down the hallway as I stand, and then clear the table, carrying both plates to the kitchen to begin the clean-up.

I don’t even get as far as retrieving the dishwashing tools from the pantry before a telltale crash has me heading through to the hallway. Glass litters the timber floor, the shards catching the spill of light from the living room. I look to the left in time to catch Cammie as she reaches up and yanks another picture off its hook, lifting the treasured memory over her head before throwing it to the floor with a roar.

“Hey!”

The third and final picture resists, its wire caught up on the brass hook. Taking care not to get broken glass in my foot, I step over the carnage and take her forearms in my hands. “Stop, Cam.”

“Let go of me!” She snarls, a cornered dog looking for a way out.

“No.” My hands tighten, her skin bunching in my hold. Fuck, I’m probably bruising the woman, but like hell I’m walking away from this when I’m partially responsible for starting it.

Fuck my curiosity. Fuck her mother, too, for validating the idea in my head. Why the hell would she want me to crack this case of shit open if this is the reaction it gets? Surely she knows how much talking about it upsets Cammie? What parent would willingly inflict pain on their child like this?

One who wants change.

I know that process all too well, don’t I?

“Just let me do this,” Cammie moans as she wilts in my hold, her knees hitting the floor. “I need to do this.”

“No, you don’t.” I loop one arm under hers, hefting her to her feet. “All you’re going to do is regret this in the morning.” She doesn’t fight me when I guide her away from the mess and toward her bedroom. “I get you’ve got to work through it, but destroying the things you have left isn’t the answer.”

Her breath hiccups as I set her down on the edge of her bed. The room is exactly as I guessed: white and grey. A calming space for a woman who’s nothing but frenetic chaos on the inside.

“Can I trust you to get into your pyjamas if I leave you alone?”

She nods, already removing the tie from her hair.

“Good. Now where’s your dustpan? In the fridge?”

She chuckles, exactly as I’d hoped.

“No, you muppet. It’s in the hall cupboard.”