Page 216 of P.S. I'm Still Yours

Wrap up the loose ends.

“What kind of idiots do you take us for?” Scar fed him whatever bullshit he wanted to hear. “It was an accident, man. It’s not like you meant for it to happen.”

I couldn’t tell you where he found the strength to look that dirtbag in the eyes and make him feel better for taking a life.

But he did.

Scar played right into Brody’s hand, manipulating the ultimate manipulator and making it seem like we weren’t blaming him for pulling that trigger.

One look at Scar’s face, and I knew… he was making a play for our survival.

Brody’s shock was almost as apparent as his relief when Scar eased his guilt. “What the fuck was I supposed to do? He knew who I was. He would’ve gone to the cops!”

Having to listen to him trying to justify his actions made me sick to my stomach.

Would Brody have killed us if we’d refused to keep quiet? If we’d told him we were going to snitch the second he let us go? There’s no way to know for sure, but I wouldn’t put it past him.

Looking back, I believe Scar sympathizing with him saved us.

“What do you want to do?” Scar jerks me back to reality, and I exhale a long sigh.

I want to cry every fucking tear in my body, that’s what.

Gray is dead.

Dead.

I don’t cry in front of people. Not even my mom. It’s something I picked up from all the times my dad would slap me around as a kid.

Don’t let them see weakness, no matter what.

But years of practice aren’t enough to keep the grief at bay. For the first time since it dawned on me that Gray isn’t with us anymore, I allow myself to break down.

“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” I go apeshit on the steering wheel, accidentally honking when I pound my fist against the horn.

A helpless Scar watches from the passenger seat.

He doesn’t try to stop me or comfort me. He simply lets my rage run its course, waiting for the sadness to take over.

And boy, does it take over.

Tears begin streaming down my face uncontrollably, and I choke on an angry sob, facing away from Scar.

Once I’ve managed to steady my breathing, I unbuckle my seat belt, wipe my face, and cringe like I have something to be ashamed of.

“Let’s go in and tell them everything,” I tell Scar, reaching for the door handle.

I’m about to get out when my phone chimes with a text.

From the last person I expected.

My manager.

Joshua

I’m here.

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