Free The Confession by Sierra Kincade Page B

wasn’t mine. He barely moved; I was fairly sure he wasn’t even breathing.
    Even in this sterile place he felt like home.
    â€œDo you ever miss me?” I asked. The question came out before I thought about it. Some things were easier to say in the dark.
    I could feel him swallow.
    â€œIt’s the worst at nighttime,” I confessed. “I can barely sleep.”
    He stepped back, and the weight of my words crushed me down into the thin, crinkly mattress. Finally my grip on his arm slid away, though my hands stayed half-closed, unable to forget the shape of him.
    â€œThank you for looking for me,” I said.
    He made a sound like a sob. Or a choke. Or both.
    I heard the slide of the heavy, tablecloth-covered chair as he pulled it closer to the bed, then the click of a button. The beeping silenced, and he felt his way to my wrist to remove the monitor. I glanced up at him, but he was cloaked in darkness.
    Then one strong arm slid behind my shoulders, and the other slipped beneath my knees. I felt his breath move my hair as he leaned down, spreading warmth like a wildfire across my body despite the chasteness of his touch. As if I weighed nothing, he lifted me, and lowered into the chair, cradling me in his lap with my head against his shoulder. His hold on me was tight, like he knew I needed it, and I pretended he needed it, too.
    â€œYou don’t have to be afraid tonight,” he murmured.
    â€œI’m not afraid.”
    â€œNo one’s going to hurt you.”
    â€œI know.”
    He moved the blanket over my body, and though it kept me warm, I wished I could feel more of his skin. I became aware of the places we did touch: my forehead against his neck, my bare feet tucked between the arm of the chair and his outer thigh. It would have been easy to tilt my head back and kiss him. But his arms tightened, and all the pieces of me that were stretched too thin began to rip apart.
    The tears tumbled down, dampening his shirt.
    â€œPlease don’t go,” I whispered.
    â€œI’m right here,” he said. “I’ve got you.”

Eight
    I woke back in the hospital bed, to the sound of a muffled cough. When I opened my eyes, light was peeking through the mini blinds over the window on the far wall, and my dad was sitting in the chair where Alec and I had slept.
    At least, I thought that was what happened. Now that it was light the whole thing seemed too much like a dream to be true. Alec had a life that didn’t involve me. He had the trial. He had a girlfriend.
    A cold sensation settled right between my ribs.
    â€œHey, pretty girl.” My dad was wearing an old flannel shirt over jeans. The buttons were misaligned, and his eyes were red and watery. “Good morning.”
    I groaned in response.
    â€œYou want something to eat?”
    I shook my head.
    He tried to hide his worry, but wasn’t very effective. He kept clasping and unclasping his hands, an odd nervous habit for a man who always kept his cool.
    â€œYou gave us quite a scare,” he said.
    I offered a half smile, but it didn’t come easily. What had happened wasn’t my fault—I knew that—but I still somehow felt responsible for frightening him.
    â€œI’m okay. The doctor said . . .”
    â€œI know,” he finished, so I wouldn’t have to. He turned his head into the crook of his elbow and started to cough. I guess at least one thing hadn’t changed since I’d been missing.
    â€œHey,” I said. “This is a germ-free zone. Try not to get the patients sick.”
    He smirked. It made me feel a little better.
    â€œLocal PD is going to swing by this morning and ask some questions if you’re up for it,” he said.
    I nodded. “Any idea who did this?”
    He looked grim. “Working on it. We’ll know soon enough. You remember anything?”
    I thought of the dream I’d had—the smooth leather seat of a car against my