Brutal Obsession (9)

She narrows her eyes. “I thought I saw something on your face when Steele introduced you two. What happened?”

“Um…” I swallow. A lump forms in my throat. If I tell Willow, she’ll go protective mama bear on my ass. Or worse. Potentially way worse. I’ve just got to blurt it out. So I do, in a rush. The words mash together on their way past my lips. “He’s the one who hit me.”

She pauses a beat. Then, “Bullshit.”

I wince.

She stares at me and rises on her elbow. “Violet Marie Reece, you’ve got to be KIDDING me right now. He hit you? He’s the one who did…” She waves vaguely at my leg.

“Greyson Devereux.” I exhale sharply. “I can’t make this shit up, Willow. The asshole hit me with his car. But—” I reach out and grab her hand. “You can’t tell anyone.”

“Why not?”

Because I signed a nondisclosure agreement. It was part of the reason why I dropped the charges. My mom didn’t want to let go. She wanted to wring out every last penny from the Devereuxes. Wanted them to cover the medical expenses, wanted Greyson to serve jail time.

Of course, he was out in less than four hours. Too much time elapsed between the cops interviewing me at the hospital, before I was rushed into surgery, and them arriving at Greyson’s house. They told my mom that they couldn’t administer a breathalyzer test, even though I swore he was drunk. He got away with it.

As the story goes, his dad made some phone calls and nudged the police chief to drop the charges. Greyson walked—quickly and quietly. I don’t know if they even took his fingerprints.

But there was still a civil suit to deal with. Mom threatened it. Loudly. Greyson’s father came and appealed to my mom’s sensible nature. He pointed at me and asked her if she was willing to drag me through a trial.

I would be questioned.

Why I was out.

What I was doing.

What made me pull into the street then.

Did I check both ways?

Did I try to avoid the car?

Questions I can’t answer. The day leading up to the accident is a blank. Like the slate in my mind wiped it clean. I don’t know where I was or how fast I was going, or if I was even wearing my damn seatbelt. If I didn’t see pictures of my car after the wreck, I wouldn’t have believed it.

And after seeing them, I don’t know how I survived. The front, the driver’s-side door, was all crumpled in. It didn’t look so much like metal but shredded paper. The passenger door of my car was open. The first responders pulled me out that way, my neck braced and head supported. That part is blurry, too.

My memory of that entire day starts with pain and Greyson and blood. I might’ve passed out after that, because it seemed like only seconds later the EMTs were helping a girl out of his car and working to extract me.

And I just remember how wrong that felt. To see her stumble between them, apologizing over and over. He didn’t just ruin me—he almost ruined her, too.

“I signed an NDA,” I tell her quietly. Like the walls are going to lean in and steal my secrets. “So even telling you that he was involved could get me in trouble. If I even so much as admit out loud that Greyson had anything to do with a car crash, or my injury, I’m done.”

Devereux. A powerful name in Rose Hill. And their attorney, Josh Black, is an influential man in the community, too. He has friends in high places—and by high, I mean rich. Infamous. They’ve carved out their spots in Rose Hill, been there for decades. Everyone in the county knows their last names—they’re that sort.

It’s Greyson who hit me, but somehow, I was paying the price.

And then the media got wind of the story. Suddenly, they had something to use against me. The defamation countersuit would’ve buried my family.

I signed the NDA so I wouldn’t have to deal with any of it. Signing it meant my mother couldn’t keep pushing. It meant that I could sleep without guilt. Yeah, because I was guilty. Somehow. Mr. Devereux painted it as my fault, and I let myself believe it.

It was a mistake. I should’ve tried harder. Should’ve refuted the defamation suit, should’ve sued Greyson for personal injury. Insurance only goes so far.

“Oh, Violet,” Willow whispers. She closes her eyes. “Fuck.”

“It could be worse,” I offer.

That’s a lie. And even worse, Greyson isn’t going to let this go.

That means I can’t either.

“What are you going to do?” Willow asks. “What do you need?”

I sit up and brush my hair out of my face. I look down at my best friend. She’s willing to go to bat for me. She’s willing to put everything on the line for me. I know that as surely as she knows I’d do the same for her. We’re more than best friends. More like sisters.

“I’m going to ignore it.” I nod. Yeah, it’s a great idea. Ignore Greyson Devereux. No problem. “It’s a big enough campus.”

She snorts. “You sound like you’re trying to convince yourself more than me. But okay. Fine. We’ll play it your way, Reece.”

I grimace when I stand. Today is a bad leg day, I can already tell. I put my knee on the bed and rub my hand down the back of my calf. The scar is neat and precise down the front, starting a few inches under my knee and ending above my ankle. A plastic surgeon had a hand in it, making sure it was the least ugly thing I’d be walking away from the accident with. (Or, in this case, wheeling away from it.) It almost blends into my shin bone.