“I’m fine. Just happy.”
But I knew something was wrong. On the drive home, he was hauntingly quiet. He gripped the steering wheel tightly. “I have a headache,” he said.
At home, I opened the bedroom door to find roses and candles—probably my daughter’s doing. “How beautiful,” I said. Charles didn’t respond. He went straight to the bathroom. I heard water running, and then crying.
When he finally came out, his eyes were red. He sat on the bed. “You need to know the truth. I can’t hide it anymore.”
“What truth?”
“I don’t deserve you, Ellie. I’m a terrible person.”
“Charles, that’s not true. Please, talk to me.”
“Do you remember the accident where Conan died?”
My heart raced. “Of course.”
“I’m connected to it. There’s something you don’t know. The night Conan died, he was coming to help me. I called him. I told him I needed him urgently.”
“What happened? Why did you need him?”
“It doesn’t matter why. What matters is that I called him, and he was rushing to get to me. And he was hit by that drunk driver. If I hadn’t called him, he wouldn’t have been on that road. It’s my fault, Eleanor. I killed my best friend.”
I stared at him. “What was the emergency, Charles?”
He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter now. What matters is that it’s my fault he’s gone.”
