Lines of Defense

Ch. 17

AMELIA HART

After work, my body aches with the weight of everything pressing down on me—the list of motives I've been tracing all day, the silent mourning I carry for Stacie and those young girls who lost their lives. It leaves a dull ache in my chest. With Beckham finally out of my way, there's no reason for me to keep staying with Ethan. The thought of his smug face and that irritating way he assumes everyone should submit to his every whim makes me feel sick. I don't need to be around him anymore. Not one more second.

I pull up to Ethan's house, park, and march through the door. There's a tightness in my chest as I head to the room, and I move fast, not wanting to let a single item linger behind, no trace that I was ever here. Shampoo, toothbrush, jacket—all stuffed into my bag. But even as I do this, there's a strange pang. I try to ignore it, to brush it off as the stress of this day bleeding into every part of me, but it gnaws at me regardless.

Just as I'm zipping up the last of my things, I hear the hum of a car pulling into the driveway. My pulse kicks up—Ethan's back.

I stand still, willing myself to calm down. Why am I so rattled?

I wheel my suitcase down the hallway toward the front door, my heart picking up speed with every step. I almost make it out, but as my fingers reach for the doorknob, it swings open from the other side, and I find myself face to face with Ethan.

We freeze. He stands there, and there's something in his eyes, unspoken, unreadable, that makes my chest tighten. I tighten my grip on the suitcase and make to walk past him, but his hand comes down on it, stopping me.

"Hart," he begins softly, his tone a little worn, a little uncertain. "I... I want to apologize. For what I said this morning."

I stare straight ahead, willing my expression into something cold and detached. "There's no need, Ethan. I don't care." I sound stronger than I feel, like my voice doesn't belong to me.

A flicker of hurt crosses his face, quickly replaced by something harder, but he doesn't let go of my suitcase. His hand stays there, as if he's not ready to let me go yet.

"Hart, I know I was out of line. I don't know why I—"

"Stop." I cut him off. "You've already said enough. More than enough."

He looks down, an expression of frustration tightening his jaw, but he doesn't let go. "I didn't mean to hurt you. Not like that."

I exhale slowly, feeling a knot in my chest tightening with each second. "Whether you meant it or not... you did," I say. "You know you did."

He finally releases his hold on the suitcase, but his eyes linger, searching my face, as if trying to decipher something I've locked away from him. But I don't give him the satisfaction of breaking, of letting him see even an ounce of what I feel.

I step past him, shove my suitcase into the backseat, and slip into the driver's side. As I start the car, I can feel his gaze on me, that intensity burning through the rearview mirror. But I don't look back. Not even once.

I'm halfway down the street when I realize my hands are trembling, white-knuckled on the steering wheel. The anger coils tighter, mingling with something I hate admitting even to myself: the hurt he can cause with just a few careless words.

I can't stand it. Can't stand how he's woven into parts of me I didn't even realize existed until now.

When I get home, relief washes over me, finally easing the knots in my shoulders. No more tiptoeing around or worrying about awkward encounters with Ethan. The sight of Jane stepping out from the kitchen with a bottle of wine brings it all back, though—that incident. I wince, the flashback of my towel slipping and baring me to that insufferable Ethan flooding my mind.