Carter pauses, his lips pressing together in a slight scowl. “That accident tore our family apart. His mother and I divorced a year later.” He waves his hand dismissively. “That doesn’t matter. What I do want you to know is that Cole … er … Trent is a troubled young man. Two years after the accident, I found him in my garage with the car running and a hose connected to the tail pipe. We thought we lost him for good that night.” Carter’s voice cracks with emotion and I feel an unwelcome spike of pain over the image in my head. “Soon after that, we admitted him to Dr. Stayner’s inpatient program for post traumatic stress disorder.” Again, Carter looks to the doctor to see him smiling and nodding him on. “When they released Trent, it was with a seal of approval. We were sure he had recovered. He laughed and smiled again. He began calling us regularly. He enrolled in a graphic design school in Rochester. He seemed to have moved on. He even attended outpatient programs and therapy groups to help others get through their grief.
“Then, six weeks ago, it looked like he was having a relapse. He appeared on his mother’s door step, mumbling something about you and how you’ll never forgive him. We brought him here and admitted him to Dr. Stayner.”
I fight hard to school the shock from my face. So all the time that Trent was missing, he was here, in Chicago. In a hospital for P.T.S.D., the thing he was insistent on curing me of.
“A few days after release, Trent was ecstatic again. We couldn’t figure it out. We thought maybe he was manic or on drugs. Dr. Stayner said no to both. He couldn’t tell us what was going on because of patient-doctor privilege.”
“And I didn’t know what was going on, to be clear. Trent hid critical information from his sessions with me, knowing I wouldn’t approve,” Dr. Stayner interrupts.
“Right,” Carter dips his head in assent. “We figured it out three days ago, when his mother ran into the receptionist here and she asked if Trent and Kacey had worked things out. She didn’t think anything of it, given Trent mentioned he had a girlfriend named Kacey and they were having trouble. I guess he felt telling the receptionist was low risk.”
Carter sighs. “When my son left the inpatient program two years ago, he did so with the belief that if he could fix your life, he would be forgiven for all the pain that he had caused.” He looks down at the floor now, as a shadow of shame crosses his face. “My son has been watching you from a distance for two years, Kacey. Biding his time until he approached you.”
I hardly notice Livie’s fingers dig into my forearm. Though I don’t feel much, the knowledge spikes somewhere deep inside. Trent’s been following me? Stalking me? All because he wants to fix what he broke? I want to make you happy. Make you smile. His words play back in my head. It all makes sense now. He truly did. He was on a mission to fix me.
“His mother and I had no idea, Kacey. Honestly. But Trent has watched over you for the past two years. He knew someone from school who could hack into your email. That’s how he found out you were moving to Miami. We had no clue that he up and left New York. But he did, leaving his condo and his life to come to follow you with this notion that if he could fix your life, he would be forgiven. We talked daily over email and voice mail. He even came to visit his mother once.”
“So I was a project,” I mutter to myself. A peace project.
Nauseous. That’s all I feel right now. Thick bile rising up my throat as realization hits. He never cared about me. I was a step in a f**ked up twelve-step program he created in his head. “It doesn’t matter.” My voice is hollow. It really doesn’t matter.
Trent and all the good that he brought to my life is dead. It was never really alive.
Storm speaks up now, for the first time since Carter stepped in. “Kacey, Dan wants you to press charges against Trent. What he did is wrong and illegal and f**ked up on so many levels. He deserves to go to jail.”
I smirk to myself. Storm never swears. She must be really mad.
“But I made him wait to report it until you were feeling better and you could make the call. I thought that should be your call.” She adds with a low growl, “even though I want to shoot the bastard in the head.”
I nod slowly. Report Trent. Charge Trent. Trent goes to jail.
“His mother and I understand if you want to press charges,” Carter says calmly, but I see his shoulders droop as he casts away his only son.
“No.” The word surprises even me as it leaves my lips.
Carter’s brow curves, surprised. “No?”
“Kacey, are you sure?” Livie asks, her hand squeezing mine.
I look at her and I nod. I have no idea why, but I know that I don’t want to do that. I’m sure I hate Trent. I’m sure I have to hate him because he’s Cole and hatred for Cole is all that I know.
I look up at Carter, imagining this man pull his son’s limp body from his car, and it’s not hatred that I feel right now, though. It’s pity. For him, and for Trent, because I’m intimately familiar with the level of pain that would drive a person to do that. It’s an end that has danced through my own thoughts once or twice in the years.
“No. No charges. No police. It won’t change anything. It never has.”
Carter squeezes his eyelids shut for a moment. “Thank you.” The words are hoarse and full of emotion. He clears his throat. With a look at Livie, he adds, “I understand there is a matter of Livie’s custody.”
“No, there’s no matter. She’s under my custody.” I turn to glare at Livie. Why did she tell him?
“I called Aunt Darla,” she explained softly. “I didn’t know if you were going to make it for a while. She said she could take me home with her and—”
“No! No! You can’t leave me,” I yell suddenly, my heart rate spiking.
“She’s not going anywhere, Kacey,” Carter promises. “Except back to Miami to go to school. My firm will ensure all the legal custody paperwork is drawn up. Custody may need to go to Ms. Matthews for now, until you’re better or Livie is old enough.”
I nod numbly. “Th … thanks.” He’s helping us. Why is he helping us?
He gives me a firm smile. “I’ve also had a conversation with your uncle.” His eyes turn cold and hard. “There is still insurance money left, Kacey. He didn’t squander it all. I’ll see to it that it is all transferred into yours and you sister’s name.” He pulls something from his inside coat pocket. “Here’s my business card, should you ever need anything. Ever, Kacey. Livie. Anything. I will help in any way that I can.” He places it on a side table.
With a nod to Dr. Stayner, he heads toward the door, his shoulders slouched as if carrying a terrible burden. And I suppose he is, after what his son has done. He stops with a hand on the doorknob. “For what it’s worth, I’ve never seen Trent as happy as he’s been while with you. Never.”
I stare at the clinic’s large oak doors. They contrast so greatly to the sterile white stucco exterior. Still, it’s a nice building.
My home for the next little while.
A tiny hand slips inside mine and I don’t recoil. “Don’t worry. It’s not so bad and, if you’re good, when you get out, we’ll go get ice cream,” Mia says with a somber face. She and Dan spent their time visiting Chicago’s zoos and parks while Storm stayed with me. Now, they’re here to see me off. She raises her free hand with two fingers held high. “Three scoops!”