Page 66 of Lights Out

“Counterpoint: it’s that truck driver’s fault for not swerving around you. Or that first driver’s for clipping you. Or even your mom’s for taking you onto the road before you were ready.”

“Hey,” she said, eyes flashing with reproach as she started to slide off my lap.

I tightened my arms around her and tugged her back to my chest. “I’m serious, Aly. Everyone involved is just at complicit as you. It’s not fair to put all the blame on yourself. Would you tell another sixteen-year-old in your shoes that it was their fault their parent died?”

She shuddered. “God. Never.”

“So why are you doing it to yourself?” She had nothing to say to that, so I pushed my advantage. “I didn’t know your mom, but I bet she wouldn’t want you punishing yourself for her death. She’d want you to live your life free from guilt. She’d want you to be healthy and happy, and by neglecting yourself and pulling these non-stop shifts, you’re actively headed in the opposite direction.”

“It’s so hard, though,” she said, digging her fingers into my shirt. “The hospital is so short-staffed.”

I hefted her by the thighs and hauled her closer, wanting to banish what little space remained between us, wishing I could crawl right inside of her and fix the thoughts in her head.

“I know,” I told her. “But you’ll be no help to anyone if you run yourself into the ground. Exhausted people are sloppy people. They make mistakes that get them caught.” Goddamn thoughts of my father slipping into every conversation. “I mean in trouble. You’d never forgive yourself if you treated someoneafter pushing past your limit and slipped up in a way that made them worse instead of better.”

Her warm breath heated my neck as she blew out a heavy exhale. “You’re right. I know you are, but it’s almost a compulsion at this point.” She sounded better than a moment ago, more like herself, and it made me want to needle her a little.

“Well, we have the next two weeks off to fix that,” I said.

She reared back, and I should have gotten a medal for keeping my gaze on her face instead of dropping it to where her robe had slipped open, revealing a line of olive skin all the way to her navel. Even lower, in my periphery, I realized her robe had parted below the tie as well, and Aly was nude beneath it.

Fuck.

“How did you know my vacation got bumped up?” she asked. “And what do you mean when you say “we” have two weeks off?”

I ignored her first question. She already knew the answer. “I took a vacation, too. I thought we could spend some quality time together as a family. You, me. Our maladjusted son who just scooted his butt across the carpet behind you.”

She spun around, robe gaping even wider. “Fred, ew! Do you have worms again?”

He lifted his head from where he’d been fast asleep in his little felt house by the TV and gave her a look like, “Me? What the fuck didIdo?”

She turned back around, features shifting into a long-suffering expression. “You just can’t help yourself, can you?”

“Not when it’s so easy to get a rise out of you.”

The hint of a grin tilted up the corners of her mouth, and something unwound inside me to see it. She had every right to be upset, and I was sure this wasn’t the last of our “you push yourself too hard” conversation, but it was still nice to know that I could get her to smile, even at the worst of times. That had to mean something, didn’t it? That this was bigger than a hookup,more than casual dating. This had real long-term potential, and I hadn’t been deluding myself when I formed my plan to make her fall in love with me.

I shifted my legs up, jostling her forward so she fell against me, hiding all that beautiful skin before I gave in to the urge to touch it.

She rested her cheek on my shoulder. “That was you on the ER line earlier, right?”

“It was.”

“What were you going to say?”

“I was going to warn you about Brad. I pulled up his hospital records and had a bad feeling about him.”

“You were right to,” she said.

I stroked a hand down her back. “Oh, you have no idea.”

She tilted her head up enough to meet my eyes. “What do you mean?”

“His family has been covering up for him or paying off his victims since he was a teenager,” I told her.

“So, I was right. He’s a monster.”

It wasn’t a question, but I answered her anyway. “He is.”

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