Page 77 of The Pact
“She asked me to watch them for her, but I said no because of playoffs. I should have been here with them.” I shake my head.
“You couldn’t have stopped this,” she says.
“I know, but I should have been here.”
Her eyes fill, but she’s steady.
“You didn’t cause this,” she says.
It doesn’t matter though. Not now. Because guilt doesn’t care about logic.
I look back in the window at Remy and Rhyan.
“Saint, look at me,” she demands.
I lower my head and rest my forehead on hers.
“You are going to take care of them in every way possible. All kids need is to feel safe, secure, and loved. And you are one of the most loving and selfless people I know. You will get through this, and we’ll do it together.”
I let out a shaky breath.
“You will. I promise you that.”
I know she’s right. Because I do love them and I’ll do everything I can to protect them and keep them safe for the rest of my life.
“And I’ll be right here with you, okay?” she says. “Every second.”
I nod. “Okay.”
I pull back and turn toward the door.
To change their world.
And this time, I don’t stop.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Presley
Grief doesn’t move in a straight line. I used to think recovery timelines, treatment plans, and all the little things I put into neat boxes meant grief could make sense in an order.
But it doesn’t. It comes in waves, and Saint is somewhere in the middle, trying to keep his head above water.
So, I stay. At first, it wasn’t even a question. I came to North Carolina the night we got the call, and as everything started to unfold between phone calls, authorities, arrangements, and the kids, it became obvious that leaving wasn’t an option. At least not yet.
Everything is still too raw, chaotic, and fragile.
And the truth is, Saint needs someone. And I’m not going anywhere.
Sure, the first week was a blur. Not only emotionally, but logistically. There was so much paperwork, maybe more so than normal because getting Savannah’s and Chris’s bodies back to North Carolina took longer than we’d expected. There were permits, clearances, coordinating between medical examinersand the funeral home. It was all clinical in a way that just felt … wrong.
Procedural and too detached for something that had just ripped a family apart.
Saint is handling it the only way he knows how. He compartmentalizes. Focuses on the task ahead of him, one thing at a time.
I see him do it. I see the structure he’s building around something that won’t be contained for long.
I help with whatever I can. I answer medical questions and processes and what to expect in the next steps. Sometimes, late at night, he asks me what certain terms meant after we spoke to the coroner.
