I was ashamed of what I’d done to Ben, turning him in to the police and getting him thrown in jail. I’d cut him off from friends, family, community. It was my fault he’d been isolated. My fault he’d hooked up with a lunatic like Violeta. My fault even that he’d become addicted again.

Maybe everyone, no matter how imperfect, is capable of finding their own way, given the right support. I wanted another chance to be that support.

Ben stared at the fireplace mantel, an old photo I’d framed of Mom, Dad, Ben, and me at the beach when we were young. “You know, I blamed myself for Mom and Dad dying for a long time. If I hadn’t been off my face that night, maybe they wouldn’t be dead.”

“Dad was drinking,” I reminded him. “It wasn’t your fault. But if you keep using, you’re going to end up dead just like them.”

“I know. That’s why I need to get out of here.” He kicked a duffel bag I hadn’t noticed on the floor toward me. “Here. That’s all the money I have left. Take it, for Josh.”

“Ben…” I searched his face.

“Take it. But promise me you won’t do this shit anymore. Things will go wrong, and you’ll get caught or you’ll get addicted. To the money, the drugs, the power. Take this and get out while you still can.”

“Thank you.”

Ben moved toward the door, but hesitated. “I never told you how proud I am of you. You pulled your life together after Mom and Dad died. I love you, Emma. I always mess it up, I know, but it’s not because I don’t love you. I do love you.”

Tears clogged my throat. “I love you too, Ben.”

He turned to go, and the emptiness I felt was vast and cavernous. I knew it probably wasn’t good-bye forever, but every good-bye with Ben felt like the last one we’d ever have.

Charlie tried to follow Ben, but I called him back.

“Ben!” I called out. “Who were you working with?”

He stopped abruptly. “Just leave it alone,” he warned. “Trust me, some stones are better left unturned.”

And then he was gone, an icy wind curling in through the open door, ruffling Charlie’s fur and stirring my hair. A minute later, I heard the roar of his motorcycle as he sped away.

CHAPTER 45

MOIRA WAS ALREADY AT the funeral home when I arrived. She was dressed tastefully in a pale-pink dress suit, her slate-gray bob immaculately styled, contrasting with the raw red of her eyes.

Two police officers with their badges covered in black tape guided us into the backseat of a black SUV. The funeral procession began, nine motorcycles flanking the car that held Nate’s flag-draped casket in front of us. A line of police cars stretched behind us.