Feels like Rain (Lake Fisher 3)

The truck coming from the opposite direction clipped the front end of our car, sending us into a spin which turned into a roll. The car rolled over four times.

I could still remember watching as Mitchell’s extra pacifier had flown through the air, like it was in slow motion. I could still remember the way the contents of Melanie’s purse floated around her like a cloud.

I could still remember the scream and then the dead silence when the car finally settled. The smell of burned rubber and exhaust stung my nose, making my eyes water.

And that was the last thing I remember.

21

Ethan

I stare into the fire, taking a short break to swallow past the lump in my throat. “Melanie died at the scene. I was taken to the hospital and I woke up four days later.” My cheeks are wet, and I hate that they are, but I don’t try to brush my face dry. I leave the evidence of my shame there for her to see because I think she needs to see everything.

“Oh, Ethan,” Abigail says, but she doesn’t reach to touch me, not like most women would. Instead, she sits absolutely still, her legs drawn up and crossed in front of her, like she’s trying to ball herself up. “I’m so sorry,” she whispers. Her voice cracks and I hear her sniffle.

It’s only when I hear that sniffle that I finally look over at her. “I didn’t want to tell you. But I felt it was only fair.” Her eyes are so bright there in the firelight, brimming with tears. “If you want to leave now, I’ll understand,” I say quietly. Then I steel myself for the moment when she gets up and walks away. It’ll wreck me, but I’ll survive.

“I don’t want to leave,” she says.

I say nothing, mainly because there’s nothing I can say that will adequately conceal the level of shame that’s coursing through me right now.

“You loved her,” she says simply. It’s not a question. It’s a statement.

“I still love her,” I say, and my voice breaks again, and I hate like a motherfucker that it does.

“Oh, Ethan. You’re wracked with guilt over this, but it wasn’t your fault.”

“It was my fault.” The words burst from my mouth with more venom than I had intended, so I struggle to gentle my tone. “It was my fault,” I say again. “If I hadn’t looked at my phone, she’d still be alive.”

She shakes her head. “Ethan, you made a mistake. And it was a terrible one, but it was still a mistake.”

I snort out a pained laugh. “So you think what I did is okay because I didn’t mean to do it?”

“No, that’s not what I’m saying.” Her voice is soft like she’s speaking to a wounded animal. “I’m saying that it was an accident. You didn’t have any intent to harm anyone.”

I snort again. “That’s not what the police said. One of the witnesses in a passing car had seen me staring down at my phone when I’d drifted into the other lane. He told the police what I’d done.”

“And that’s why you went to prison?”

I nod. “That’s why.”

“I don’t understand. It was a mistake. A terrible accident, but an accident nonetheless.”

“Actually, it’s referred to as involuntary manslaughter.” I shrug. “Melanie was the town darling. Her dad is the fire chief and he knows everyone, even back then. He made some calls because he wanted justice for Melanie.” I suck in a breath and blow it out. “But what he didn’t understand was that I wanted justice for Melanie just as badly as he did. I wanted them to do their worst to me, because their worst wasn’t nearly as bad as how I wanted to punish myself. With my careless actions, I killed her.”

She sits quietly, still hunched up in a ball.

“When I woke up in the hospital, I had handcuffs holding one wrist to the bed. I didn’t even know what had happened. I was alone, until a nurse heard me calling out for Melanie. They sent a doctor in to tell me what had happened and to explain about Melanie.”

“I can’t imagine how hard that must have been for you.”

“What came next was easy. I got charged with involuntary manslaughter, and they were using my case as a landmark decision to deter people from using their phones while driving. They offered me a plea bargain—seven years in prison if I would plead guilty. I got out in five with good behavior.”

“You weren’t guilty,” she says quietly. “You made a mistake.”

“I was guilty. I still am guilty. And I’ll always be guilty.”

“No,” she says. “What you’ll always be is who you are.”