Page 19 of Never Forget
"I'm sorry." The words felt useless. "I tried, Jamie. I thought?—"
"It's not your fault."
I went still. She meant the LODD. The city's decision. But hearing her say those words while I sat there knowing the truth?—
"Sam." Her voice was softer now. The steel was gone, replaced by something fragile. "Thank you."
"For what?"
"For being here. For waiting at the hospital. For handling the department stuff so I didn't have to." She reached over and took my hand. Her fingers were cold, and I wrapped mine around them without thinking.
"Jack was lucky to have you," she said. She squeezed my hand. "We all are."
I sat there in the darkness, holding her hand, accepting gratitude I didn't deserve for a sacrifice I'd caused.
And I said nothing.
CHAPTER 4
Jamie
I woke to Mark's arm across my waist and the pale gray light of a Havensworth winter pressing through curtains I hadn't chosen in eight years.
The bed was too small for him. His feet hung off the edge, his shoulder wedged against the wall, his body folded into a space designed for a teenage girl who'd never expected to share it. He hadn't complained. He'd just climbed in beside me last night and held on, and I'd let him.
I lay still, listening to his breathing. Slow. Even. The sleep of someone who was tired but not broken.
The room looked exactly the way I'd left it.
Jack had kept it intact. The lavender walls I'd begged for when I was twelve. The bookshelf stuffed with paperbacks I'd devoured in high school. The desk where I'd written my college application essays, drafts crumpled in the trash, Jack bringing me tea at midnight and telling me to stop overthinking.
For when you come home to visit,he'd said once, when I asked why he hadn't converted it into something useful.It's still your room.
My eyes traced the sloped ceiling, the dormer window, the way the morning light fell across the floorboards. I was sevenwhen Dad decided I needed my own space. Jack was twelve, too old to share a bathroom with his little sister, and the attic was just sitting there, collecting dust and Christmas decorations. Dad had this vision—a whole renovation, just for me. My own little kingdom at the top of the house.
I remember watching them work. Dad and Jack, measuring and sawing, laying down new floorboards. Jack was old enough to be helpful, young enough to still think a construction project with Dad was the best thing in the world. He held boards steady while Dad nailed them in. Handed him tools like a surgeon's assistant.
I wanted to help. Begged to help. Dad finally handed me a paintbrush and pointed me toward the wall.
"Stay inside the lines, sweetheart."
I painted for hours. Lavender—I’d chosen the color from a fan of swatches Dad brought home from the hardware store. Mom came up with cookies and milk on a tray, and we all sat on the half-finished floor and ate while sawdust settled in our hair.
I still remember the way Dad laughed when I got paint on my nose. The way Jack pretended to be annoyed when I kept asking questions. The way Mom looked at all of us like she couldn't believe her luck.
They'd been dead for eleven years now. Some days it felt like yesterday. Some days it felt like another lifetime.
I eased out from under Mark's arm, inch by inch, until I could slip free without waking him. My robe hung on the back of the door where I'd always kept it. I pulled it on and padded barefoot into the hallway.
The house was quiet. That particular stillness of early morning, before the world remembers to start moving.
I paused outside the nursery door. Cracked it open just enough to see.
Loretta was asleep on the small couch in Rosie's room. Rosie was curled on her side in bed, thumb in her mouth, blanket clutched to her chest.
I closed the door softly and headed downstairs.
The house hadn't changed much since I was a kid. Same hardwood floors that creaked in the same places. Same family photos lining the stairwell—Mom and Dad on their wedding day, Jack and me at the beach, all four of us at Christmas with matching sweaters and genuine smiles. I touched the banister as I descended, my palm finding the groove worn smooth by decades of hands.
