Page 32 of Written with Regret (The Regret Duet 1)
She had an empty coffee mug in front of her, surrounded by a dozen little balls of rolled-up napkin. If I had to take a guess, I’d venture to say half the population did that when they were bored or nervous. But seeing those balls in front of Hadley pissed me off to no end.
Because Rosalee did it too.
She smiled weakly. “Do you want some coffee or something? I can grab the waitress.”
“Talk,” I rumbled. “Just fucking talk. Say whatever the hell you dragged me out here tonight to say.”
She closed her eyes, her long lashes nearly brushing her cheek. “I never meant for any of this to happen. But I do realize that the majority of it is my fault.”
“Majority.” I laughed, propping my elbows on the table and intertwining my hands. “I’d highly suggest you recalibrate your culpability if you want me to hear you out.”
Her eyes suddenly opened, the tangible weight of her gaze forcing me back in my seat.
Hadley’s eyes were bright, even more so than I remembered. From this close, I could see the unique green that had flecks of both gold and blue, but what really took me aback was the storm brewing inside them.
When I was ten, the death of my mother had changed my life.
A few years later when I was fifteen, a single bullet had changed my life again.
At twenty-nine, a shrill cry from an abandoned newborn had flipped my life on end.
But at thirty-three years old, in the middle of a quiet diner, Hadley Banks changed my life all over again.
“I think we both know exactly who is culpable, Caven Lowe.”
The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end as I sucked in a breath so deep that my lungs screamed in protest.
No one had called me Caven Lowe in eighteen years. Not since the day my brother had petitioned the court to allow us to use our mother’s maiden name.
I should have known though.
That cloud of chaos was bound to find me again.CAVENEighteen years earlier…“One, two, three… Go.” The final syllable hadn’t cleared my lips before we both lurched to our feet.
I’d been worried about the little girl falling behind, but with her shoulders rounded forward, her body low, and her hand locked in mine, she took off toward the pizza place, dragging me behind her.
We’d only made it a few steps when I heard his yell echo through the food court. It was immediately followed by the pounding of his footsteps and a spray of gunfire.
Ducking low, we ran faster, dodging the sea of dead bodies, my sock soaking up blood as we ran through it.
We were too far away.
Why were we so fucking far away?
It had appeared much closer when the hope was still thrumming in my veins.
I chanced a glance over my shoulder, praying like hell that he wasn’t as close as he sounded.
But he was right there, charging after us, his gun held high, aiming directly at my head.
Panic hit me like a tsunami, stealing my breath and momentarily my coordination, because I tripped over something—or, more than likely, someone—nearly falling until that little redheaded girl I was saving saved me.
“Hurry!” she yelled, pulling my arm so hard that she kept me on my feet.
The fear was blistering me from the inside out, but slowing down was not an option.
My heart pounded as I pushed harder. Ran faster. My legs swallowed the distance to the Pizza Crust. I had no idea how she was keeping up, but she was with me stride for stride.
A blast of relief struck me when we reached the counter. I’d been working at the Pizza Crust for six weeks, so I knew exactly where to go. The double doors in the back were a direct path through the kitchen once you got around the counter.
If he didn’t catch us by then, we would be home free.
“Come on!” I yelled, turning fast around the edge of the counter, her wet socks sending her slingshotting behind me.
She grabbed the back of my shirt for balance and continued to hold on as we ran together.
We were so close. Victory was already singing inside me. We’d done it. We’d made it—both of us in one piece.
Or so I’d thought.
When those doors I’d been dreaming of since the first shot had rung out while I was on break came into sight, I realized they were going to be my death sentence.
A chain was wrapped through the handles, joining them together. A padlock dangled off the end, making it impossible to open them.
I froze, the crushing disappointment so palpable that it was as if I’d been hit with a sledgehammer.
Not only had I given away our location by running; I’d trapped us in the small kitchen with no way out.
Maybe he’d been right all those years. Maybe I was worthless.
