Page 122 of From Air

Fitz draws a deep breath and releases it with his forehead pressed to my chest. “He was found not guilty for reason of insanity. I’m sure he’s drugged up and strapped to a bed somewhere. Or dead. I hope he’s dead.”

I stiffen for a few seconds before releasing a controlled breath. “I’m sure he never intended for so many people to die.”

Fitz lifts his head. “What?” His face contorts.

“I’m sure he wasn’t thinking clearly. How could you be?”

“Don’t fucking do that. I know you work with the mentally ill, butdon’ttry to defend him to me. Why would you do that?”

“I ... I’m not trying to do that.”

One look.

With one look, I know this will end us if I let it—if I tell him the truth.

He never needs to know. I wishIdidn’t know. When I get home, I will call the private investigator and tell him to forget it. I don’t need to find Barbara. If she doesn’t care about her father, why should I? I won’t be in San Bernardino forever. I can treat Dwight like any other patient. This will all fade away. I don’t need an uncle.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.” I press my hands to his cheeks. “What you’ve been through is unimaginable.” I kiss him slowly before resting my forehead on his. “But don’t march into that fire, Fitz. They’re not waiting for you to die; they’re waiting for you to live.”

He pulls me onto the bed and shuts off the nightstand light. Then he hugs me like a security blanket until his breaths slow and his body relaxes.

I can’t relax. There is no security for me. I’m still awake when Maren and Will come home from the party. Their hushed chatter lasts for a while before their bedroom doors click shut.

And still, I can’t sleep. Fitz’s confession plays in my mind, and I question everything in the universe. I question the meaning of life. Is it really just a random chain of events? A ping-ponging set of circumstances? If destiny is nothing more than a cliché used to sell books and movies, then how did I find my uncle? Is that a coincidence? And how have I fallen in love with a man so intimately connected to my newfound family?

It doesn’t make sense. It’s not destiny. It’s a nightmare.

I worm my way out of bed without waking Fitz, and I tiptoe down the stairs, feeling thirsty, anxious, and on the verge of hyperventilating. This won’t work. I’m not a good liar. I can’t pretend I’m not hiding this massive secret from Fitz.

I gulp a glass of water and stand at the sliding door overlooking the shed in the soft glow of the adjacent streetlight. I was so drawn to this place when I saw the pictures. Itfeltright. It felt like my destiny.

The floor creaks behind me, and I startle.

“What are you doing?” Fitz’s groggy voice ghosts along my ear with his lips. His hands slide around my waist.

I continue to stare out the window while his touch brings a rush of tears to my eyes. I rub them like I’m tired, the wet emotion smearing across my cheeks. “Couldn’t sleep,” I murmur.

“No?” He gathers my nightshirt in one hand while his other hand slips down the front of my panties.

I close my eyes and rest the back of my head against him, hoping for a reprieve from the leaky emotions. I need this.

The distraction.

The escape.

The connection to the person I fear losing the most.

I press one hand flat to the window while my other guides one of his to my breast. Yes. I need this, to get lost in how he makes me feel so alive, so wanted and needed.

“Baby, spread your legs for me.”

“Fitz,” I moan. “Say that again.”

He could turn me on with nothing more than his lips at my ear, whispering dirty words. They’re an electrical charge in my veins, dizzying and powerful.

“Baby.” He slides his leg between mine, nudging them apart. “Spread your legs for me.”

With my arousal coating his middle two fingers, he works them inside me, drawing a sharp gasp from my open mouth—the heel of his hand rubbing my clit. His other hand squeezes my breast and tugs at my nipple until it’s hard between his fingers.

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