A laugh that sounded much too close to hysterical burst from her. “No.” Sara shook her head. “I’m not okay.” She staggered back, toward the door, bumping into a metal stand and sending it toppling over. “I’m going…to go…I’m going to go outside. Get some air. I’ll be back…to say…I’ll be back.”

When she bent to right the stand, Lincoln was there, ceasing her movements with his hands on hers. “I’ll get it. I’m going to talk to him a bit and then I’ll be out.” He crouched by her, looking worried. “Will you be okay?”

Sara tugged her hands away and stood. “What else can I be?” Her eyes slid from Lincoln’s to the bed. Pain welled in her heart, expanded, and wiped all other emotions out. Am I losing my mind?

As Sara walked out of the room on weak legs, she wondered if that would really be such a bad thing.

***

“I brought you something.” Mason held out a red notebook and a single #2 pencil. He stood near the door, boots and coat removed, waiting for her to take it.

Sara frowned, hovering near the kitchen counter. “What is that for?”

“I think you’ll need it. Write stuff down. Whatever you’re thinking or feeling, write it down. If you’re not ready to paint, or don’t want to, or simply don’t want me to see what you’re painting, I’m cool with that. But you need a release. Keep a journal. Write. Or sketch even. Do whatever you want. Write down a memory, one page at a time. Only don’t throw this away.” Mason lifted an eyebrow as he approached her, motioning for her to take it.

She did, quickly setting it down on the counter as if it would burn her. “I don’t need it.” Sara stared into the half-full coffee mug between her hands, the dark brown liquid endless and free, nothing to tether it, nothing to keep it from gently lapping against the sides of the mug.

“You know how small towns are.”

“Meaning?” Sara glanced up, noting how the brown of Mason’s sweater made his eyes seem closer to burgundy than amber.

Mason sighed and leaned his hips against the counter, crossing his arms, his gaze locked on her. “I know about the will.”

She flinched, her elbow bumping into the cup. Mason scooped it from the counter and raised it to his lips, sipping it. “Thanks for the coffee.”

“That was mine.”

He shrugged.

“I drank from it.”

Mason lowered the cup, still not speaking, his expression telling her he didn’t care. “How do you feel about that?”

“Not happy. It was the only cup. Now I have to make another pot of coffee.”

“Sara.”

She averted her face, pulling out a chair and sinking into it. “How do I feel?” Like death would be welcome. But he probably already knew that. Sara clasped her hands together and stared at the uneven nail of her left pinky. “Guilty. Betrayed. Angry. Sad. Horrible.”

“Horrible?” Mason pulled out the chair opposite her, placing his arms on the table as he scrutinized her face, drinking her coffee. “Why horrible?”

“Do you really have to ask that?”

“Yes.”

Sara leaned back in her chair and leveled her eyes on Mason. She couldn’t answer that. Not right now. He lifted one eyebrow in response. “Do you hear your brother in your head? Think he’s talking to you?”

Mason set the coffee mug down on the table, his gaze on the cup. “Why do you ask?”

“Because you said something about Derek talking to you and…” Sara’s face burned and she lowered her eyes to the table. “I hear him sometimes.”

“Who?”

“My husband. And sometimes…I think I see stuff.” Sara looked up, pain forming in her chest. Her eyes pleaded with him to tell her she wasn’t crazy, or maybe that she was. She just wanted to know, either way.

“Stuff?”

“I don’t know. It’s…nothing. Nevermind.”

Mason didn’t say anything for a long time, finally breaking the silence to say, “I think that’s normal, Sara. It’s how we cope.”

“So you don’t think I’m losing my mind? Imagining things? Seeing and hearing things that aren’t real?”

“Is it real in your head?”

“Yes.”

“Then it’s real and that’s all that matters.”

“And you’re not concerned that maybe I’m losing my mind?”

“If you were, you wouldn’t know it.”

“Thanks.”

Mason chuckled. “Anytime.”

“I used to hear a voice, but sometimes, now, it seems like it’s his voice.” Sara fisted her trembling hands.

“Sara.”

She looked up.

His features were etched in somberness. “You’re not crazy. You’re not losing your mind. You’re grieving. Your mind only gives you what you can accept, what you can deal with, and maybe that’s what you have to see and hear right now to accept what’s going on. You’re fine.”

“Promise?” she joked weakly.

“I do.”

Sara saw how serious he was and gave a slight nod, looking at the table. “I go over all these scenarios in my head,” she began softly. “What if we’d left a minute earlier or later. What if we’d gone another night? What if he’d driven instead of me? Would he still be here? I’m tormented by the ‘what ifs’.”

“It’s normal. I went through it. Everyone goes through it. It does no good, hurting yourself like that. It doesn’t change anything, Sara. That’s the thing about ‘what ifs’; they don’t matter. They don’t change anything. All they do is make it unable for you to heal. You have to find a way to get past them.”

She exhaled loudly, her breath quivering as she released it. “Right.” Sara rubbed her forehead, nodding. “Okay. I’ll write in the notebook.”

“Sara.” Her eyes met his. “Sometimes when you think you have nothing, you realize you have yourself, and that’s something. That’s enough. I know you don’t think you are, but you’re strong. You’re strong enough to get through this. You’re stronger than you realize.” Mason paused. “You wouldn’t have jumped.”

Her eyes burned and Sara blinked them. “How do you know?”

“Because you already would have by then if you were going to.”

***

The three of them sat at her kitchen table, untouched cups of coffee before them. They wouldn’t meet her eyes. Sara looked from his mother to his father, feeling their blame pointed at her like a loaded shotgun, the trigger already pulled, the damage irrevocably done.

Henry and Ramona Walker had changed since she’d seen them last, although she couldn’t remember when that had been. The time since he’d left her was a blur; days, months meshing together until she couldn’t remember one from the other. The first six months she’d existed and that was all. Sara was honest enough with herself to admit she hadn’t progressed very far since then.

Their skin was tanned from the Florida sun, but it somehow had an unhealthy, pale look to it at the same time. Heartache did that to you. It did as much damage on the inside as it did on the outside. They visited their sons from time to time, but never for long, and never her. She knew they held her responsible. Sara didn’t fault them that. She blamed herself as well.

“I didn’t…I don’t know how…to do this. I didn’t want this,” she said softly, knotting her fingers together in her lap, her eyes down.

When Sara looked at his father; an older version of him, she saw his blue, blue eyes gazing back at her with accusation, the same look she imagined she would see in his eyes if he ever opened them again.

She wanted to be angry at Lincoln for calling them, but that would be wrong of her. They had a right to know; even if he hadn’t wanted them to know. Sara wished it was their decision and not hers. They were his parents; she was just the wife. They’d made him; she’d destroyed him.

Lincoln stood with his hips against the counter, his arms crossed over his chest. “But Cole did, Sara. This is what he wanted.”

His name stung her heart and she lowered her head.

“I don’t know what to say,” Ramona said quietly, her throat convulsing as she swallowed. She was a smaller, more feminine version of Lincoln.

“Were you going to tell us? Or were you just going to let them pull the plug and let us think he’d died on his own?” Henry demanded; his voice harsh.