Free Long for Me by Shiloh Walker Page B

them, the right way to cut them, which flowers worked well in an arrangement and which ones were likely to die sooner. She’d spent three years in foster care before the state finally let her go back home to her father and her foster parents had tried to gently nudge her into botanical studies.
    But Chris didn’t have a head for school.
    She’d done fine when Mom had been around to help her, but concentrating was hard, and the words and numbers jumbled together on the page. The harder she tried, the worse it got and others who tried to help only got frustrated when she couldn’t make them understand that the words didn’t look right to her.
    It wasn’t until eleventh grade that she was diagnosed with dyslexia and by then, she was almost hopelessly behind. A couple of patient tutors and teachers were the only reason she was even able to graduate with her class, but it all left her with a burning disgust for school.
    It hadn’t been so bad with Mom.
    Nothing had been that bad with Mom.
    Sighing, she rubbed her hand across her chest, but it did nothing to ease the ache there. She wanted to cry, needed that release so much, but she couldn’t find any way to free the tears trapped inside.
    Guy’s face flashed before her and she squeezed her eyes shut.
    No.
    She wasn’t going to go to him.
    Crying on his shoulder after what he’d done …
    Setting her jaw, she swung her legs over the edge of the bed and sat up, staring at the narrow strip of light filtering in through the window. The hollow ache remained, but she’d just have to find a way to live with it, deal with it.
    Standing up, she strode out of her bedroom into the narrow, boxlike bathroom.
    She was going to have to find a way to live with all of this, she supposed.
    Theo Miller and his pathetic way of evading justice.
    Guy and how he’d helped.
    And the fact that her mother’s killer would never really answer for what he’d done.
    She’d lived with the loss of her mom all this time.
    She could live with this, right?
    * * *
    When she came out of her bathroom, the folded-up square of paper remained on her coffee table. Light shone down on it, catching her eye and refusing to let her look away.
    She curled her lip and moved into the kitchen, her need for caffeine screaming through her.
    And still, those folded sheets of paper remained back there.
    Mocking her.
    A confession.
    What the hell?
    What kind of special privileges did he get?
    She glared at the coffeepot like it might be able to answer, might be able to make it all better, but it didn’t even magically make the coffee for her. Swearing, she got a pot brewing and dropped her head down onto the door of the cabinet in front of her, heaving out a sigh as she waited for the scent of the rich, life-giving brew to fill the air.
    She nipped off a cup before the pot was finished and then turned around, staring across the wide open floor plan at the coffee table.
    And the letter.
    Confession.
    Whatever.
    She sipped the steaming cup of black and brooded.
    As the caffeine started to sing through her veins and clear the fog from her blood, she closed her eyes.
    Confession.
    She’d wanted answers.
    Fuck.
    * * *
    It took twenty minutes to cross the floor. Another five to work up the courage to reach for the letter.
    But then she sat there, holding it like she was afraid she’d open it to find a Horcrux or something. Worse, Aragog … that creepy spider. Licking her lips, she started to unfold it and then jumped, a startled shriek escaping her when a fist slammed against her door.
    “Open up, Tink.”
    Her brother.
    Heaving out a breath, she glared at the door while her heart hammered against her chest and, to her disbelief, tears stung her eyes. She swiped her fingers over her eyes, blinking them. She was almost crying. She couldn’t cry so easily as that.
    What the hell.
    She put the sheaf of folded paper down and rose, moving to the door on trembling legs.
    Tate knocked again, ever impatient.
    As he shouted