Текст книги "The End Game"

Автор книги: Kate McCarthy

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Текущая страница: 25 (всего у книги 28 страниц)

Jordan

14 hours earlier…

Our soccer semifinal is just half an hour away and the locker room is crowded. My stomach rolls and my hands shake. Nerves get me every game. As soon as kick off comes I’ll be fine, but those final minutes beforehand wreck me completely.

Sitting down on the bench, I lean over and adjust the laces on my cleats. They’re new, and a little longer than what I’m used to. After tying a double knot, I grab some black tape and wind it around each boot, strapping the cords in place. As I straighten, a pang of loneliness robs me of breath. I wish I hadn’t sent Brody to see Annabelle. It was the right thing to do, but I miss him. I miss my husband.

My phone rings from inside my locker cupboard as I stand. My heart leaps. Brody always rings me right before a game. Flipping open the door, I take it out. It’s Nicky. My heart rate slows to normal pace. “Hey,” I answer.

“Jordan,” he replies. There’s an edge in his voice now. It’s been there since the news of mine and Brody’s marriage broke.

Brody said he would talk to my brother for me, and as much as I wanted him to take one for the team, it wouldn’t have been right. So I returned Nicky’s call later that night, my apology sounding lame and trite. My brother was deeply hurt, unable to comprehend my need to break free and do something fun and reckless.

How could I explain it to him? How could I explain the way Brody looked at me when he said ‘I do’ in the tiny little registry office? His eyes were dark and loving, almost fierce as he promised to cherish me forever. It was intense and romantic. For a single moment in time we were wild and free, the only two people in existence. After the clerk announced Brody could kiss the bride, his lips on mine were deliciously warm.

A smile pulled at the corners of his mouth when he drew back and whispered the words, “No regrets, okay?”

There would be no regrets. My love for him surpassed all reason and common sense. “None.”

Brody nodded, satisfied. “From now on, it’s just you and me.”

After speaking our vows, we went to a nearby bar. It was packed, the crowd rowdy. We pushed into the thick of it and tossed back beer after beer until we couldn’t see straight. We drank and laughed until the early hours of the morning. When the band began to play a cover of U2’s “All I Want is You,” Brody whooped, declared it our wedding song, and hauled me out onto the dance floor. I remember the click of my heels on the thick wooden floors and tipping my head back, looking at the beautiful fairy lights that covered the ceiling as Brody spun me around, laughing and drunk. It was crazy beautiful. He made my wedding night perfect.

Tears well up from the overload of emotion. I blink them back and sit down on the bench behind me. Holding my head in my hand, I close my eyes, returning to the present and Nicky’s phone call.

“I just wanted to wish you luck,” he says. “So … good luck.”

My voice drops to a whisper, not knowing what to say. “Nicky …”

“Don’t.” He lets out a sharp breath. “Focus on your game.”

I don’t tell him the game doesn’t mean to me what it used to. It’s not everything anymore. “I’ll see you at home in a few days,” he says.

Australia isn’t home anymore, but I don’t tell him that either. My brother has already been punched in the gut. I don’t need to kick him while he’s down. “See you then.”

He hangs up and I join the gathering huddle for our pregame pep talk. Our head coach gains our attention with a shout and a clap of his hands. Silence descends. Pausing, he scans our faces.

“Do you know why you’re here? What you’re busting your ass out on that field for?” Coach doesn’t wait for an answer. He stares at each of us in turn with a hard glare in his eye. “That’s what you need to remember today, because this game is already over for you if you’re not out there for the right reasons. You know you’re the best team. You know this game belongs to you. It belongs to your teammate beside you. It belongs to everyone who helped get you here today. To every person you love who puts up with never seeing you. To every fan who looks up to you.” He draws in a deep breath of pride, his nostrils flaring and his finger jabbing to emphasize his words. “When you leave that field at the end of the game, win or lose, be sure you did everything you could and gave everything you had, because if you didn’t, you’ve let down everyone and everything this game belongs to.” His arm rises high. “Now get the hell out there, bust your ass, and prove just how good you are!” Our coach raises his voice and it echoes around each and every one of us. “Prove that you’re better than even you thought you could be!”

It’s a rousing speech. One that makes me pause. I do know why I’m here. For the love of the game. That’s all it comes down to. But my love for Brody is stronger than even this. It’s for him I’ll do everything I can, and give everything I have. He’s the reason why I signed a new contract with Houston Dash this morning. When I’m done with my FIFA tour, I’ll be heading home. It makes my heart sing.

Unzipping my jacket, I shove it in my locker and turn to follow the team just as my phone rings again. Shit. I glance around the emptying room. The hell with it. I palm the ringing device in a furtive maneuver and hit answer, whispering, “I literally have five seconds.”

“Then why are you answering your phone?” Brody asks, amused.

“Because I love you and I miss you, and I’m a selfish bitch because I’m wishing I didn’t tell you to go to Austin. I want you here.”

He laughs in the face of my misery. “You just want a fuck to pound all those pre-game nerves from your system.”

My face flames because he knows how hard I like it just before a match. It loosens tense muscles and clears my head. “You know me so well.”

His voice softens. “I do.”

Eddie shouts something at the television in the background. My brows pull together. “I thought you’d be in Austin by now.”

“No, we’re heading out for pizza with some of the guys from the team. I’ll leave from there.”

“You’ll be too tired to leave from there. You should go now.”

As if on cue, he lets out a loud yawn. “I know, but I want to catch your game on the TV. If I’m driving I’ll miss it.”

“Jordan!”

“Shit,” I mumble into the phone. “That’s my coach.”

“Go!” Brody booms. “Kick a goal for me.”

“Bye,” I whisper. Ending the call, I lose the phone and race out on the field with minutes to spare.

Just like he asked, I kick a goal for Brody. When it’s done, I press my index and middle finger to my lips and then hold them up high so he knows it’s for him.

Despite giving our hearts to the game, we lose. It doesn’t just sting either, it burns like a raging bonfire. My first season in a professional league has ended in heartache.

Brody rings me later that night. I’m stretched out in bed, declining consolatory team drinks. With no grand final ahead of us, I have a window of opportunity. I plan to use it wisely by flying to Austin in the morning to surprise Brody, and I want to get a good night’s rest.

“Did I wake you?” he whispers.

I stare up at the ceiling, wide awake. “No.”

“I’m sorry.”

Disappointment wells. “You can’t win them all.”

“Don’t give that bullshit line.” He’s right. It’s a standard one we all use to death and means nothing. “Tell me how you really feel.”

“I feel like a failure.” My eyes burn. “I gave it everything, Brody. I did the best I could, but it wasn’t enough. What if this is it? What if this is the best I’ll ever do?”

Verbalizing the fear doesn’t make it disappear. It makes it real, and it makes me shake. When you work your whole life toward one true goal, the last thing you want to believe is that you’ll never reach it.

“Don’t ever think that or you’ll choke,” his deep voice rumbles through the phone. “You’ll stop trying. You won’t push yourself that little bit harder, and you’ll turn your fear into reality. Besides,” he adds. “You’ve been selected to play for Australia in the World Cup. Does it get better than that?”

“Yes,” I reply stubbornly. “By winning it.”

He laughs and there’s a wealth of affection in the sound. “That’s my girl.”

“Brody …”

I open my mouth to tell him about signing with the new soccer team but change my mind. I’ll tell him in Austin tomorrow. I want to see the look on his face when he hears the news.

“Mmm?”

“I hope you sort something out with your parents tomorrow. I know your dad is a total asshole, but you and Annabelle were close. It’s not right for him to keep you from seeing her.”

I feel his tension ignite from thousands of miles away. “I hope so too. I don’t know what else I can do.”

The rattle of a pill bottle reaches my ears. My stomach clenches. “That’s not—”

He cuts me off, annoyed. “No. It’s an anti-inflammatory. My body’s sore as fuck.”

“I’m sorry. It’s just … I worry, Brody.” Painkillers are a way of life for athletes, but where is the line between necessity and addiction drawn? For Brody it’s already so blurred. “You promised me you’d stop taking all those pills. You have, haven’t you?” My hand tightens on the phone. I hate that I have to ask him, that I don’t trust him when it comes to taking medication, but I don’t know what else to do.

“I don’t take anything that doesn’t come from the team physician’s office.”

Brody’s response should placate me—the Wranglers team doctor wouldn’t hand out anything they shouldn’t be taking, or supply medications in dangerous doses—but it doesn’t.

When I don’t respond, he adds, “I’m not in the mood for an argument. I’m fucking tired.”

“I’m not arguing with you. I just—”

“Good.”

I huff. “Dammit, Brody.”

After a long pause, he says, “Goodnight, Jordan.”

His voice is curt. Ending a phone call with hateful words is unbearable, but there’s no talking to him when he’s like this.

I sigh. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“Sure,” is all he says before ending the call, leaving my stomach in bigger knots than before he rang.

My sleep that night is fitful, and I’m grateful for the early morning flight to Austin. My goodbyes were said yesterday and my suitcase is packed. The majority of my Seattle possessions were shipped back home to Houston a week ago. My plan is to spend two days with Brody in Austin and fly out to Australia from there.

Arriving at the airport, my phone vibrates a message as I’m checking in.

BigBananaBoy: When does ur flight get in?

Jordan: Midday. Why?

BigBananaBoy: I’ll pick u up.

The man at the counter offers a practiced smile and hands over my ticket. “Have a good flight, Mrs. Madden.”

The use of my married name gives me such a thrill. I smile at him. “Thank you.”

Walking toward the coffee stand, a small carry-on over my shoulder, I type a reply.

Jordan: You don’t have to. I can get a cab.

BigBananaBoy: I want to talk to you about something.

That sounds ominous. After ordering a skinny chai latte, I hand money to the cashier and step aside to wait.

Jordan: As long as it’s nothing to do with your banana, then ok.

BigBananaBoy: You had ur chance at my banana. You blew it. And not in a sexy funtimes way :P

I give him my standard response, rolling my eyes.

Jordan: I was washing my hair.

BigBananaBoy: And you’ve never lived it down since, have u?

Not from Leah or Paige. And enough with the banana talk.

Jordan: Have you spoken to Brody this morning?

BigBananaBoy: The grumblebum is awake and angry, and he’s busy letting me know just how much.

Jordan: Go easy. He has to deal with his asshole father today.

The barista calls my name. I grab my cup and venture toward the departures board. My head tips back as my eyes roll down the list, searching out Austin. With a single blink, every departure time listed changes. I groan. Those closest duplicate the sound. Heavy morning fog has delayed every flight on the board.

Sipping my latte, I text Jax the bad news.

Jordan: Flight delayed an hour. Shoot me now.

BigBananaBoy: Sucks to be you.

Jordan: Hey you didn’t tell Brody I’m coming did you?

BigBananaBoy: You are? Take a photo. I want to see your sex face.

Jordan: You live in the gutter.

BigBananaBoy: You should visit me down here. It’s filthy fun.

Jordan: You can have your gutter. I’m married to the newly crowned Hottest Rookie in the NFL.

BigBananaBoy: No fucking way!

Yes way, because I’m staring at the magazine cover right now from the newsstand, my mouth open in shock. Brody is on it, looking like I’ve never seen him before. Tight black and burnt orange uniform, tanned skin, black stripes under his eyes, and a fierce glower that razes you on the spot. The photo is sexy as fuck. That’s my husband. Pride hits me, along with the urge to snap up every copy in existence. I don’t want that fierce glower aimed at anyone but me.

I have to settle for purchasing just two copies—one to keep nice and the other to read on the plane—otherwise I wouldn’t fit them all in my carry-on. I go find a seat and settle in, and eventually my flight is called. Dumping my empty latte in the bin, I shoulder my bag and line up at the gate, sending Jaxon a quick message before switching off my phone.

Jordan: Boarding now. See you on the flip side.

But I don’t see him. When I reach the arrivals zone Jaxon isn’t there. Twenty minutes later and no answer from his phone, I head for the taxi zone, wheeling my suitcase behind me.

My phone rings just as the driver is stowing my suitcase. In my haste I fumble the damn thing and it drops in the gutter. My thigh muscles scream with exhaustion as I crouch low to pick it up, just missing a call from Brody. “Crap,” I mutter.

Sliding in the back of the car, I get a beep from voicemail.

“Where to, ma’am?”

Providing the driver with the address of Jaxon’s apartment, I hit play on the message and put the phone to my ear as we pull out of the airport. Brody’s voice filters through. It’s slurred and garbled, making no sense.

My chest begins to pound, my fingers shaky as I press the button to replay it. But there’s no technical glitch. The message comes through again, exactly the same.

A cold sweat breaks out across my body. Not caring about surprising Brody anymore, I try calling but he doesn’t answer. I try Jaxon again. No answer. Something’s wrong. Very wrong. And it chills my blood. I glance up, scanning the surroundings to see how far away we are. Too far. We’ve barely cleared the airport.

“Please hurry,” I tell the driver, my heart pounding with a fear I can’t rationalize. I pocket my phone, keeping it close.

Twenty minutes later, we turn down Jaxon’s street. An ambulance is double-parked in front of his apartment block, lights flashing. I want to throw up. “No, no no, no, no,” I chant rapidly, my voice rising with each syllable that leaves my mouth.

“Ma’am?” the driver asks, glancing at me in the rear view mirror.

Paramedics are wheeling a gurney from the building, their pace brisk. I’m not close enough to see who it is, but my gut knows, and Jaxon confirms it by following them out moments later.

“Brody,” I cry softly, grabbing for the door handle on the still moving vehicle. “Stop the car!” I scream shrilly.

He screeches to a halt, but I already have the door open. When my feet hit the ground I’m running, frantic.

“Hey, lady!” the driver yells after me, his head out the window and honking his horn. I haven’t paid my fare and my luggage is still in the boot of the car. I don’t hear or see him. My focus is on the gurney the paramedics are wheeling toward their ambulance.

“Jaxon!” I cry out.

He turns, his face ravaged and wild with panic.

Oh god, this is not happening.

It feels like it takes me forever to reach them, my body running through quicksand. People nearby have stopped in their tracks, watching the scene unfold before their eyes. I push through them, not even noticing when someone I knock stumbles to the side.

“What happened?” I ask breathless, jogging with the gurney as I look down at Brody. He’s unconscious. A tube is jammed through a cut in his throat, blood smeared down along the incision. His neck is mottled with red and purple, his lip split, and eye swelling closed. He’s a bruised mess.

The paramedics remain tightlipped.

“Please!” I shout, desperate. “I’m his wife!” I turn to Jaxon as they wheel him inside the waiting vehicle.

“I shouldn’t have left him alone,” Jax cries. He fists hands in his hair, tears rolling down his face. “Oh god, Jordan. I can’t …”

“Someone fucking talk to me!” I scream, frustrated and frightened. My body is shaking and my lungs have no air. I’ve never been so scared in all my life. Brody’s body begins seizing violently. A sob breaks from my chest seeing him so broken and vulnerable.

“Ma’am,” the paramedic says to me after leaping in the back of the ambulance. “Get in.”

He doesn’t need to tell me twice. I spring into action, jumping inside the back. The doors slam closed behind me. Moments later, the ambulance screams to life, rocking as we push our way into traffic, sirens piercing the air.

“Please,” I beg again, watching the paramedic turn Brody to the side while his body suffers through the convulsions.

“What’s your name?” he asks.

“Jordan.”

“I’m Rafe,” he replies, but I don’t want ridiculous introductions. I want answers. “Jordan, your husband overdosed.”

I suck in a sharp breath, watching frozen as he returns Brody to his back. There’s a needle already set up in his inner elbow. Rafe hooks it to an IV with fast, efficient movements.

“No,” I choke out. “You must be wrong. He wouldn’t do that.”

Rafe shakes his head as he hooks Brody up to machines. The sound of a pulse flickers to life inside the ambulance. It’s faint and erratic. “A mix of painkillers and sleeping pills.”

Oh god, Brody, why? Tears spill over and my heart breaks right down the middle as I look down at his face. “I can’t lose him,” I say through a sob.

“We’ll do everything we can,” Rafe reassures.

I hear the conviction in his voice as he checks Brody’s vitals, but I’m not reassured because his eyes tell a different story. They’re saying he’s seen it all before. Brody is just another statistic. Another young life lost before it’s barely begun.

My hands fist, fighting the urge to scream and rage my denial. There’s still hope. Pushing my way in beside the paramedic, I sink to my knees beside Brody.

“Get back,” Rafe orders.

I ignore him. Wiping tears from my face, I lean close and brush damp hair off Brody’s forehead with gentle fingers. “I won’t leave you,” I croon into his ear, praying that somewhere deep down he can hear me, and that he can feel me at his side. “I promise. Not ever.”

Moments later, the unthinkable happens. Brody flatlines and I lose my fucking mind.

Jordan

I’m hunched on the floor in the corner of the ER waiting room, my back pressed to the wall. My legs are too weak to move. I can’t even bring myself to stand.

Tipping my head back against the wall, I close my eyes. I don’t want to open them again. I don’t want to see the world anymore without Brody in it.

Why? Why did you do this to yourself? To us?

But I know why. Deep down I know, my mind falling back to the day Brody showed me the tattoo on his chest.

“You fly too?” I’d asked after reading the pretty cursive script inked out across tanned muscle.

“Out there on the field, the game is everything,” he told me. “It builds you up, breaks you down, and it bleeds you dry. But I love it. It’s the only place I’m free.”

I cover my mouth with my hand, my heart screaming with pain. Is this what you wanted, Brody? To leave us all behind and be free?

Desperate to touch him, I’d covered that tattoo with the flat of my palm. His skin was warm, his heart beating powerfully beneath it. “You believe in God?”

“Of course.” He leaned in then, his eyes dark and honest, laying his soul bare for me to see. I’d known it right then, that Brody would have my heart, and that he would break it. Yet I gave it to him anyway. The revelation had left me trembling. “I need to believe in something.”

“Then believe in yourself.”

“You can’t say shit like that.”

I’d pulled back in a last ditch effort to shore up the walls that were crumbling between us, a pitiful attempt to stave off eventual heartache. “Why can’t I say stuff like that?”

“Because I’ll only let myself down.”

That right there is why. He never believed. Not once. And god it hurts to know the man I love with everything I have never had faith in himself the same way he had faith in me. It rips a giant gaping hole in my chest.

The ER automatic doors whoosh open and Jaxon rushes in, dragging me back to reality. His eyes are red and frantic as they scan the waiting room. I realize that I left him there on the road. Jax is Brody’s cousin and I just pushed my way in without a second thought, leaving him to find his own way here. I didn’t think. I just reacted, seeing no one or nothing but Brody.

Jaxon’s gaze lights on me and he doesn’t pause. He heads straight for me. I suck air into my lungs when I realize I’m sitting here not breathing, a huddled messy ball on the floor of the ER.

His voice cracks. “Brody?”

I shake my head. Jax reaches out. Muscled arms wrap around my torso, lifting me with ease, they anchor me to his side as deep, jagged sobs tear from my chest. He squeezes me tight. “Tell me,” he begs thickly.

Oh god.

“I wasn’t there for him, Jax,” I cry, dragging in deep, juddering breaths. Something happened at his father’s house. A catalyst that left Brody desperate and in pain, and alone, and I wasn’t there. “Brody … he …”

My words die as my gaze falls to the ER doors over Jaxon’s shoulder, the same ones a woman is walking through that I’ve only ever seen in photos. Seeing her in the flesh, the resemblance to Brody is clear—hair the color of rich caramel, dark brown eyes, tall. Behind her comes a man in a suit. Liam Madden. His father. His presence can only mean one thing. The media has gotten wind of what happened and they’re outside.

My eyes narrow on the man who told Brody his life was for nothing, and then made him believe it with every fiber of his soul.

“You,” I hiss. Rage builds until I see nothing but red. I launch myself at him, wild with rage and hate. I don’t know what I plan to do except cause him pain the same way he did to Brody. Jaxon moves in, grabbing me around the waist and pulling me away.

“Jordan, stop!” he cries, panting with effort because anger has given me superhuman strength. But I can’t stop. I’m lost in a world of hurt because Brody’s dad is here pretending to care when he never has. It makes me livid.

“This is all your fault!” I shriek at him, trying to pull free. “None of this would’ve happened if it weren’t for you, you fucking asshole!” My voice is shrill and I’m sobbing openly, not caring that the entire ER waiting room is silent and watching.

When Liam speaks, his voice is forceful and cold, shocking me like icy water dashed in my face. “I didn’t force Brody to take drugs. He did that all on his own.”

“You sonofabitch,” Jaxon growls and lets me go.

Hands fisted, he starts for Liam, pulling up short when a little girl steps out from behind Brody’s father. Pretty blonde curls halo her face and dark brown eyes stare right at me, wide with fear. A tear leaks out, trickling down a single, rosy pink cheek. “Jordan?”

She walks around her dad and straight up to me. She’s a tiny little thing, yet the way Brody talks of her, she’s an absolute hellion—full of fire and cheeky attitude. “Annabelle?”

My anger deflates and wiping my face with the backs of my fingers, I sink to my knees in front of her. It brings Brody’s sister a little higher, causing her to look down at me. I open my mouth to speak but have no idea what to say.

“Is my brother okay?” she asks, her voice wobbling.

Jaxon holds his breath, both of them looking down at me. Brody’s mother comes to stand behind Annabelle, placing her hands on her daughter’s shoulders. I look up. Pale and distraught, Juliet Madden still radiates beauty, even now fighting back tears. Dismissing her completely, my eyes drop back to Annabelle.

“He’s sleeping,” is all I can say, my eyes filling again.

Her little chin lifts, but I see how much it costs her. There’s so much strength inside this tiny little girl. “Is he going to wake up?”

My voice is like sandpaper as I force the words past my lips. “I don’t know, sweetheart.”

“Jesus, fuck,” Jaxon mumbles and sinks to a chair, holding his head in his hands.

Annabelle slams her little body against me, her bony arms wrapping around my neck. I put a hand on the ground to steady myself before we both tip over on the floor. It shocks me. I never expected Brody’s little sister to like me, or show affection, let alone grab for me in her grief. When I’m steady, I wrap one arm around her little waist and my free hand goes to the back of her head, brushing at the curls.

“I don’t really hate him,” she cries, her hot tears dripping on my skin. “I was just mad that he went away. Do you think if I could tell him that, he’d wake up?”

Shifting upwards, I slide into the seat beside Jaxon, bringing Annabelle with me. She holds on tight, and I realize her attachment stems from the need to be close to someone who loves her brother as much as she does. I know because I feel it too.

Jaxon takes her hand in his and bows his head toward me, our foreheads almost touching. “You don’t need to tell him that,” he says to Annabelle, “because he already knows you don’t hate him.”

“That’s right,” I say, rubbing my hand up and down her shoulder, forcing a calm I don’t feel. She looks to me. “He’d never believe something so silly as all that.”

“But he left.”

Jaxon and I share a pained glance. “Annabelle …” I flick a glare toward Brody’s father. He doesn’t even notice. Juliet is hovering nearby, but he’s taken a seat away from us, his phone pressed to his ear. My eyes return to Annabelle. “You have to believe me when I tell you that leaving you was not something he ever wanted to do.”

She nods, unsure. “I still want to tell him I don’t hate him. Just so he knows.”

“Of course you can tell him,” Jaxon says.

Juliet steps in. Taking her daughter’s hand, she tugs her off my lap. Annabelle goes reluctantly. “Come on. Let’s go get a coffee.”

“But I don’t drink coffee,” she says as they walk away.

“No, but I do.”

Annabelle glances behind her at both of us, her expression torn. Brody’s little sister needs comfort, and I honestly don’t know if that’s something her parents are physically capable of providing.

Jaxon takes my hand when they disappear, his voice hollow when he asks, “A coma?”

I nod. “That’s all I know. He … Brody died on the way here. He died,” I choke out. Jaxon grabs me, gathering me up in his arms. This time it’s for him and not me. He buries his face in my neck and my palm brushes the back of his head the same way I did for Annabelle. “They managed to revive him, but all the sleeping pills …” I trail off, shaking my head. “Jaxon, what happened? Please tell me.”

Jaxon draws back, glancing in Liam’s direction, but Brody’s father has disappeared as well. In a rough voice he tells me the story, starting from the moment they got out of the car at Brody’s parents’ house, and finishing with when they left.

For a single moment we sit in silence, staring at each other. I’m angry for so many reasons I can’t even count, so fucking angry it makes me shake. “It’s my fault. I sent him there. He was coming to Seattle with me. He was going to watch my finals, and I told him no. I told him he should use his time off to try again. To see Annabelle.”

“It’s not,” Jaxon protests. “It’s mine. I took him back to my apartment and I left him there. I had to hand in an assignment. I wouldn’t have bothered, but it was already overdue and Brody told me he was going to sleep. He was so calm. It was almost eerie.” He wipes at his face, his head tipping back to stare at the ceiling. “Why are we blaming ourselves?”

“It’s easier,” I say with sorrow, my body drained.

He turns his head, looking at me. “Easier?”

“It’s easier to blame ourselves for what happened, rather than believe he would do something like this to himself.”