“Dylan, you never asked me what I saw in you after the accident, but if we’re really done, I want you to know the truth. From the moment I met you, I realized that we were exactly alike—no, wait, let me finish. I know you don’t believe that, because you have this strange, twisted vision of yourself. But we’re the same. We both grew up in cages we built for ourselves. And when I met you, I thought, here was a man who could help me become the person I wanted to be, and I could do the same for him. I still think that’s true. The thing is, I’m ready, Dylan. I can’t wait anymore. I’m not happy with my life, not because of you, but because I need to be someone different. I’ll do it without you if I have to, but I’d rather do it with you. And deep down, I think you want that, too. My question is, are you willing to try?”

That was a good question.

That was a very good question, and I knew what I wanted to say. I wanted to rise above the anger I carried—for the world, for her, but mostly for myself. Karly needed me to forgive her, and that was what I needed to do, too. Instead, I failed both of us. It was another of my mistakes, another bad choice. I should have kissed her right then, but all I did was walk past her and get in the car. That was how we drove out into the rain that night, with a bitter silence lingering between us.

You see, there are moments in your life you are desperate to take back as soon as they happen, but the clock ticks, and they’re gone. You make your choice, and an instant later, nothing is the same.

By the time I was ready to tell her how I felt, we were already in the water.

I couldn’t stay at the accident scene any longer. I walked down the side street toward the green fields of Horner Park, which I knew from my childhood. As I did, I learned that my life was still governed by Chance with a capital C, because in the next block, across from the park’s basketball courts, I noticed a two-story house with a familiar red-and-black sign mounted in the yard. The house was for sale, and the listing agent was another woman at Chance Properties whom I’d met once or twice.

However, I didn’t care about that.

Instead, I focused on the white pickup truck parked at the curb. The truck had a painted logo on the door for Ryan Construction.

Scotty Ryan.

He was inside the house.