“I always believed it was my fault they found us,” I admit. “The timing lined up with when I took your car and went to Ashfield for my dad’s SD card, and I thought someone followed me.” I lower my gaze and breathe for a second while willing the edge off the memories and guilt they bring along for the ride. “But Foster told me he was there a day earlier. About taking my phone and throwing it, and I’m guessing he told you about the tracker on it—I’m so sorry, Roman.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he drawls.

His unbothered response makes me look up, and I repeat, “Yeah, yeah?” but with far more confusion.

“I get it, Remington. You’re sorry. Foster’s sorry.” He ducks in closer, gaze locked on mine. “And now I’ll tell you the same thing I told him. There’s no need for an apology because there’s not a damn thing to forgive.”

“But—”

He holds up his palm, indicating he hasn’t finished. “Even if the phone was the how and why, it’s not yours or his to carry the guilt over. The evil of others isn’t our responsibility. All we can do is try and cancel it out in whatever ways we find.”

Biting back tears, I force a smile and nod an okay. But it’s not. His kindness is a given. I wouldn’t expect anything else. But it’s not the how and why that matters here. It’s the what—Roman dehumanized and beaten.

He sighs at me, shaking his head. “Foster gave me the same fake-ass smile.” Roman pulls a knee up on the couch between us, twisting to face me with his arm stretched along the back of the couch toward me. “Here’s the truth I need you to understand. It could have been the phone. It also could have been the guidance counselor at the high school.”

I draw back a little at his statement.

With a week remaining in the semester, I had to contact the counselor to verify what I needed for graduation and confirm my transcripts would be sent to NYU. I’d already taken most finals and only needed to submit a paper. By then, everyone knew about my mom’s death, so they didn’t expect me in classes. She just needed an address to mail my diploma and documents for a scholarship.

“You said she had to keep any information confidential since I was eighteen.”

“And Daniel should have been arrested for Rebecca’s murder, pretty girl.” He exhales slowly, looking down between us at the tan cushion. “I never told you this, but three days before they broke in, I filed a report with state authorities.”

“What?” I ask.