Page 90 of The Darkest Chase
She just stands there for more than a minute, her eyes closing, the only sound between us the rush of water from the faucet.
I know I should say something here.
I don’t know how.
What would Talia do? I remember her first thought when I got my stupid ass drunk and spilled my shit all over her.
How she didn’t want me to regret trusting her with that information. That told me more than anything how much she cared about never using that to hurt me.
Is it any wonder I wanted to kiss her?
I think I know what Talia Grey would say if she were here right now.
“I’m sorry, Miss Lewis.” I’ve always thought apologies were empty, weak platitudes that can’t bring the dead back or unfuck wrongs. It sure wouldn’t bring my dead brother back.
But that’s not what I’m apologizing for.
I’m apologizing for having to hurt her, for having to shatter her life this way.
That’s fucking genuine, and the one thing I can give her right now is real honesty.
“I wish I could tell you it would be all right, Miss Lewis. I’m afraid I can’t. Do you want me to tell you what we found?”
She opens her eyes, staring into the sink.
I catch a tear sliding down her cheek, visible from my angle.
“Y-yes! Tell me,” she whispers.
“He fell. From a rather steep cliff,” I say. “The drop was massive. His skull struck the rocks at the base of the cliff. It’s very likely he felt nothing; it would have been quick.”
“Quick doesn’t make him less… less dead,” she stammers, sobbing.
That sob turns heavy fast—and I move quickly to rest my hands on her shoulders, giving her a gentle push toward the table.
“Sit,” I urge. “I’ll make your tea.”
Crying herself hoarse, she staggers over to the chair I just left abandoned, drops down, and buries her face in her hands.
Fuck, I hate this.
I give her a moment to cry it out, without forcing her to think about me at all, and retrieve her kettle from the sink to finish what she started.
While the water heats, I fish out a mug and a teabag, grab the kettle just before it screams, and fill the mug.
By the time I slide the tea in front of her, she’s starting to calm down, violent heartbreak dying into sniffles.
I settle in the chair across from her, trying not to be obvious about watching her.
She’s small enough that the footprints in the grass could have belonged to her, but I don’t think she’s faking this reaction.
Some people can cry on demand, but not like this.
This is real.
Full-body, racking grief that speaks of true pain.
The kind of howl from the heart I knew when I stepped into the morgue to identify my brother’s body.