Page 97 of Tipping Point

“How does this make it right?” I need to understand his reasoning.

“It gives her children a chance at a life they were robbed of.”

“And what about me? What about the life you’re robbing me of?”

He flinches, as if struck.

“I’m sorry.” He runs a tired hand across his eyes. “I tried to walk away in London, but then somehow I convinced myself that I couldn’t resist you. You were a moment of weakness, and you can believe it or not, but I never meant to hurt you.”

And then I say the thing that has been shredding my heart. The one thought I could not let go of. I needed an answer.

“Was I…Did I-” I take a big gulp, try again. “Was any of it even real?” I end in a whisper.

“Camille…” He brushes a hand through his hair.

“You never,” I interject, not wanting to hear it, not wanting it confirmed. Tears are streaming freely down my face. My anger spent. “You never even said goodbye.”

And then I see it for what it is.

I thought that he was pushing me away because he didn’t want to put me through what his mother had gone through.

But that wasn’t true.

It was weeks of saying goodbye. Every moment he touched me, trailed his fingers over my skin, breathed his need for me and pulled from me agonising ecstasy, had been, in his own way, a farewell.

I’m shaking from the weight of it, how his hand lingered on my foot when he bought me the dress, his face, when he looked at the photo of the lighthouse keeper. The night at his house when he cooked for me, and the day before the race, when he poured himself into me.

Last night, when he made love to me, and wrapped his arms around me after.

He had used me as the swan song of a dead man walking.

17

Chapter 17

FINN

When she runs from the room, I don’t stop her.

And now, three races later, it’s November, and I’m wondering why the fuck I’m still here.

In Mexico, the suspension still isn’t great. There hasn’t been enough time to overhaul it, and Jack has done the best he could. Barely pulled away, and I’m called back to the pits. I violate the pit lane speed limit on my way back, furious. I get suspended for the next race.

I don’t even bother flying out to Brazil. I spend the week at home, thinking about Camille, and I overturn the terrace table, and refuse to let the staff right it.

For two weeks now I haven’t slept, could hardly eat.

After my suspension by the stewards, Erik had been so angry at me he refused to speak to me. Reuben had to represent Delta Victor alone. He did well.

Now, in the briefing room in Las Vegas, Erik’s tentatively proud over how much weight I managed to drop. It equates to faster lap times in the race.

Jack, however, doesn’t feel the same. He barges in while I’m getting dressed and he narrows his eyes as he takes me in.

“You missed the briefing call last week.”

I shrug.

“You smell like bourbon.”