Echo (Black Lotus #2)(39)

“I don’t want to be that man.”

“You’re not. You’re nothing like that man,” I tell him. “There were times my mind went to that place with you, but you’re not like that. I’ve always felt safe with you. I’ve always been certain that you’d never really hurt me.”

“But I do hurt you. And I like it. And I want more of it.”

“Then take it. I’ll give it to you. I’ll give you anything to make you feel better. If it’s my pain and suffering you need, then have it. It’s yours.”

His hands tighten on me as I speak, and with brows knit together and a locked jaw, he grunts in frustration when he releases me from his hold. Raking a hand through his hair, he growls, “What the f*ck is wrong with you? You shouldn’t want this. You shouldn’t want me. What right-minded person would subject themselves to this?”

“I never claimed to be right-minded. I know I’m screwed up. I know I’m so far beyond damaged I’m irreparable. But I also know that you won’t find the same amount of satisfaction in punishing anyone but me.”

“Why do it then? Is it to make yourself feel better for what you did?”

“Partly.”

“And the other part?”

Taking a few steps over to him, I say, “Because I love you.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“But I do. I never thought anyone could have the power to make me feel as safe and clean as you do. You have the power to make me feel worthy of living. That somewhere out there, life just might have a purpose for me.”

“Then why leave me? Why didn’t you stay and call the medics? Why did you leave me to die?”

It’s in his words I hear the heartbreak I caused.

“I told you. I was scared. Everything was happening so fast, I didn’t know what to do. I panicked.”

He releases a slow sigh and takes a moment before speaking again. “I’m sure I already know, but I need to hear it from you.”

“What is it?”

“I know Pike is dead. And I know he died the same day he shot me.”

I swallow hard when he says this, and I already know his question before he asks, “Did you have anything to do with his death?”

My chin begins to quiver, and when I can’t hold on to my emotions any longer, my face scrunches as I confess, “I will never forgive myself for what I did. I loved him so much.”

“I need to hear you say it,” he says sternly.

Fighting back my tears, I take in a deep breath and let go of it slowly before giving him the trembling words, “I’m the one who shot him. I killed him.”

“I want to be mad at you. I want to throw it in your face, but that would make me a hypocrite, and it’s because of your lies.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Stop apologizing!” his voice rips when anger takes over. “I don’t want to hear anything else from you. Every time we talk, the shit you say . . . it’s impossible to understand and digest.”

He walks back to the center island, facing away from me as he looks out the windows.

“Get out,” he orders on a dead breath.

He’s unmoving as I walk around him to pick up my coat and keys, but the struggle is evident within him. I want to say a thousand words, but I know better. So I keep my mouth shut and do as I’m told.

I leave.





“WHAT ARE YOU doing back here, lassie?” Isla questions when I walk through the front door with my luggage.

“I missed my flight. Is it all right if I stay another night?”

“Stay as long as you like,” she says when she walks over and takes one of my bags. “Were you able to reschedule?”

“Not yet. I never even made it to the airport. I’ll have to call the airline tomorrow.”

“Does this have anything to do with the McKinnon boy?” she asks.

Walking into the formal sitting room, I take a seat, answering, “Yes.”

“Heartache is difficult.”

Looking over at her sitting across from me, I give a slight nod. The day has been draining and I feel weak from what happened with Declan. With so many questions swarming in my head, I say, “Can I ask you something?” as I lean back in the chair.

“Of course.”

“Do you believe that people can change?”

She takes a moment and then gently shakes her head a couple times. “No, dear.”

I reflect on her answer as defeat looms overhead.

And then she elaborates, “I believe we are who we are and the essence of what we are built upon is unchangeable. But I believe we can change how we make choices. But just because we can change our behavior doesn’t mean we’ve changed the core of who we are. It’s like someone who’s an alcoholic. They may rehab and make better choices, but I don’t believe that inner voice and craving ever goes away. The change is solely in their choice to not drink, but they still desire it.”

“So, evil is always evil?”

“Yes. And good is always good. But I trust in my faith that we are descendants of rectitude. That each of us, no matter how bad we may think ourselves to be, the core lining of us is threaded in holy fibers.”

It’s in her words that I’m taken back to my home in Northbrook. The memories of my father and I play in clips of tea parties, nighttime songs, piggyback rides, bedtime stories, and fits of laughter. And Isla is right . . . there was a moment in time I was clothed in nothing but goodness. I was pure and free and honest. But I was just five years old when my light was snuffed out.