“I can’t get her picture out of my head,” she whispers. “She was so young, and so pretty. Her whole life ahead of her, and now she’s dead. And it’s my fault.”
Her face crumples, and she drops the box of crackers between their feet, pulling her hands up to cover her tears. She hasn’t seen Ben in years, and he’s been in her apartment for less than two minutes before she’s turned into a needy mess of insecurities.
She chokes back a sob as his arms close around her. “It’s okay, Tess. I’m here.”
He doesn’t tell her not to cry. He just holds her while the pain and guilt course through her.
Tessa’s feet go out from under her, and he supports her as the two of them slide to the floor. She leans her head against his chest and cries the tears that have been building from the moment she saw Ollie smile into the camera that morning.
Tessa doesn’t know how long she cries. Long enough to soak the front of Ben’s shirt while he strokes her hair. When she finally manages to glance up, his head is leaned back and his eyes are closed. He looks tired, and a new wave of guilt hits her. He was at a conference for work when she called. He should be heading home to his own bed, not babysitting her.
Ben doesn’t bother to say any of the well-meaning clichés most people would. It’s one of the reasons she loves him. And she does love him, no matter what’s happened over the years. Ben understands she doesn’t need or expect him to fix anything. She only needs him to be there. A friend to remind her she’s not alone.
“I’m sorry,” she says as she wipes her face on her shirtsleeve. “I hate putting you in this position.”
He shrugs. “And I hate seeing you take everything onto your own shoulders like this. You didn’t plant evidence. You didn’t throw Barlow in jail. You didn’t steal years from his life.”
“That doesn’t make it okay!” she says, sitting up and staring at him. Tessa picks herself up from the floor. Even with her back to him, she’s aware of Ben’s gaze on her.
“No, it doesn’t,” he says. “But Tessa . . . this isn’t on you. If Winters had done his job, none of this would have happened. I don’t know if Barlow’s guilty or not—”
“You saw the video.”
“Yeah, I saw it. I saw a desperate, angry man whose life has been ruined. If he was guilty the first time around, then Winters should have proven it instead of letting his men railroad him.”
Tessa shakes her head, searching for the right words. “Ben, you don’t understand. I was convinced Ollie didn’t kill Gwen Morley,” she says. “Not just that the authorities didn’t play fair. Not just that he was a victim of a corrupt system. I believed that he was innocent.”
Ben shrugs. “Maybe he was.”
She stares at him in horror. Each possibility is worse than the other. The idea that she helped put a murderer, a guilty man, back on the streets to strike again . . . or the idea that an innocent man became so warped by events outside of his control that he crossed an unforgiveable line. That he took a life, murdered another human being, out of some twisted need for revenge.
“What’s happened since doesn’t negate what came before,” Ben says.
“Doesn’t it?” she says softly. “I wish I could believe that.”
Ben sighs and pulls up one leg, resting his arm across his knee. “But you don’t, do you?” There’s no judgment in his face, only a sad acceptance.
“I can’t.” Not because she doesn’t want to, but because she does. If Tessa can separate the two crimes, she can absolve herself of responsibility for the second. She can still believe, in her heart, that she did the right thing. The desire to do so is nearly overwhelming. And incredibly self-serving.
“By his own admission, Oliver Barlow is a man capable of terrible things. Regardless of how he landed there, prison is where I found him, and prison is where he’d still be if I hadn’t gotten involved.”
Ben sighs. “All I’m saying is this isn’t entirely on you. Don’t do that to yourself. It’ll take you down roads you don’t want to go down again.”
Thoughts of the last time flash through her head. The hospital, the meds. The descent that took her there.
“Have you talked to your mom?” Ben asks.
Tessa shakes her head. She should tell him about her mother’s ultimatum, but it won’t change anything. Ben can’t fix her family either.
He doesn’t bother asking if she’s talked to her sister.
“Look, Tessa, there’s nothing good about this situation, but you can’t do anything about that. It’s out of your hands. The only way you’re going to get through this in one piece is to find a way to accept that.”
She looks up and meets his eyes. “But how?”
“One step at a time,” he says. “Just like everything else.”
His smile is warm, and she can still see a glimmer of the boy she fell in love with when she was six. The boy who, if life had dealt them a different hand, she might have married.
7
The next morning, Tom Petty sings about one more time to kill the pain, and Tessa burrows farther under her covers. The music accompanies an unmistakable smell of freshly brewed coffee and frying bacon.
It’s an irresistible combination and pulls her from the bed against all odds.
The shower is running in the bathroom as she passes. Tessa rubs sleep from her eyes and stumbles toward the promise of caffeine.
She pours a cup and sees a cast iron pan her mother bought for her sitting on the stove with a tea towel draped over the top.
Tessa’s never used that pan. Not once.
Suspiciously, she lifts the edge of the tea towel.
“Biscuits? You made biscuits? Ben, how long have you been awake?” she yells.
There’s no answer from the bathroom and no one to hear her grumble about farm boys rising with the roosters. She takes a biscuit from the pan. It’s flaky and still warm.
As fortified as she’s ever going to be, Tessa turns down the music and settles in at her small kitchen table. Her phone has been switched to silent for nearly twenty-four hours. Reporters started blowing it up not long after the story broke.
But she can’t hide from the world forever.
Girding herself, Tessa checks her notifications. Her stomach drops at the number. With a sigh, she begins listening to her voice mails, deleting the ones from the press when they’ve barely begun speaking.
There are three messages from her mother, all sent the day before.
Tessa pauses on the last one.
“Honey, I know you’re having a rough day. And I know you need time to process this, but please don’t ever forget, you’re not alone. You’re loved. Always.”
Tessa squeezes her eyes shut. She’s not going to cry. She’s not.
“Goodnight, Tessa,” her mom continues. “We’ll speak when you’re ready.”
At the tone, Tessa’s thumb hovers, then moves to save the message.
The next is from Anne, left only an hour ago.
“Hey, I’m at the office,” her assistant says. “Call me when you get this. We have a problem.”
The peace her mother’s message settled on her evaporates as Tessa dials Anne’s number.