His next message reminds me how Foster West rarely fights fair. I see part of his arm at the bottom of the picture, resting on top of the glass surrounding his balcony, and a gorgeous fountain in the lit courtyard below. A small smile forms while the sadness recedes a little. Like the last time he showed me a fountain.

I show him my view and then wait. When he calls, I can almost see his reflection in the window, phone in front of his face. I answer with the camera pointed at the comforter, then flip it to the cityscape. His goes from the gray of his shirt to the fountain.

He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t push. He’s just here. And eventually, I blow out a breath.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Foster. I should have told you when I saw you again in Prague. Or at the label before we left. I let you think I wanted to…” My gaze falls, like by not looking at the screen, I’m not looking at him. “What happened really fucked me up. At some point, I started forcing myself to not think about it so it wouldn’t eat away at me all the time. Then I refused to remember and hid from it. I needed to try and erase it to get my life back.”

“I’m sorry, Remi,” he says, soft and deep. “I didn’t know how she died, only that it was sudden. I hate you went through any of it. And you don’t owe me anything. When I—” He cuts off but then, “I’m just fucking sorry.”

I swallow, finding myself wanting to talk when I expected a need to retreat. “I found her after sending you my picture but before you replied. Daniel was already orchestrating to cover it up, and no one would believe me. Hell, half of the cops in that town likely helped pin it on the poor homeless guy they were setting up.”

I tug at the corner of the comforter and mess with the tag. “I have no idea what he would have done if I stayed. I dropped my phone, getting away from him. Probably for the best. He had a tracker app installed and might have caught me if I tried shutting it off while running.” My eyebrows dip, a wave of guilt crashing over me. “Not that it mattered in the end.”

“What do you mean?”

I almost have more trouble with these words than the others. This memory of why I almost didn’t go to NYU. Why I barely left my dorm room until I became Heath’s TA. Why I still panic anytime I see my name in credits or anywhere for that matter.

“You don’t have to tell me anything. I meant what I said, you owe me nothing. We can stop talking about it if you want.”