Only When I Die

By E.V. Lind

Another riveting psychological suspense from E.V. Lind that'll have you reading into the small hours … ONLY WHEN I DIE.

 

Tate Woodrow has done his time for murder.  Locked up as a teenager, he's spent eighteen long, hard years fighting to survive and live with the nightmare of his attack. Now he's back in Collinsport, Oregon, to the simplicity of living by the sea, where you don't have to keep eyes in the back of your head and where no one and nothing can tell you what to do or when.

 

He's dreamed of returning to his old life, and finding Kayla Collins, the girl he'd loved. The girl who's been missing for eighteen years. The girl he was willing to kill for.

Kayla and Kenzie Collins were the identical twin daughters of widower Roland Collins, the richest man in the county and sadistic psychopath. Tate's first teenage mistake had been daring to fall love with Kayla. His second had been trusting that Roland and his cohorts had a shred of humanity.

 

Now Roland's dead and Kayla is still missing. All that remains is the broken sister Kenzie, who's always lived to obey her father, and who remains controlled by evil.

Trapped between worlds, Kayla's body has long decayed but her soul lingers, desperate to live. Tate's return to their childhood home is the trigger Kayla needs. The memory of their young love gives her the strength to fight on, to fight for her spirit to defeat even death.

 

He lost his freedom trying to save her the first time.

 

He'll risk his life to save her again.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dolce Vita Trust
• Release date: Dec 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9781991193223

E.V. Lind

E.V. Lind is the pen-name of Yvonne Lindsay, an award winning, multi-USA Today bestselling author of more than 50 titles with more than 5 million copies sold worldwide. She has always been captivated by the supernatural and enjoyed chilling suspense movies and has always been drawn to visit old homes and even older graveyards for all the untold stories that lie within. Add to this a fascination with what makes criminals tick, a love of crime and suspense novels and you can understand why E.V. now writes suspense with a supernatural twist.  From Lisa Gardner to Barbara Erskine, E.V. is inspired by stories that hook the reader from the first page and take them on a thrilling journey of mystery, crime solving and things that go bump in the night.

Book preview

ONE

Tuesday, early evening, August 28, 2001

I knew I was in big trouble the second Dad held my diary up in a meaty fist.

You stupid girl! he yelled at me, spittle flying from his mouth, before throwing my second most precious possession on the floor with enough force that the binding broke and a couple of pages fluttered out onto the hardwood planks of his home office floor.

His eyes were wide with anger, his face an ugly dark red.

Don’t call me stupid.

I don’t know where my strength came from. Maybe it was shock, maybe it was the belief that I could stand up to the man who’d fathered me and who’d orchestrated every second of my life and that of my twin for the past eighteen years. Except for this summer. This summer I took my life, my choices, my decisions into my own hands.

You’re nothing but a stupid slut! he raged. You have degraded yourself, this whole family, with your behavior. You think that boy—Tate Woodrow—cares about you? He laughed then and it was a horrible sound.

Boys like him don’t care about girls like you. They don’t respect you. They just want to put their cock in you and fuck themselves silly. And you damn well let him. You’re nothing more than a notch in his belt and too foolish to realize it.

He put his foot on my diary and ground down hard with his heel. Pages splayed beneath the pressure. My heart, my thoughts, my secrets, my truths, my dreams. Destroyed beneath the weight of his disapproval.

I’m not a slut. I love him, and he loves me! And I’m going to spend the rest of my life with him. We’re getting married.

Married? His voice had become deadly calm, which should have alarmed me more than the rage that had been on his face a few moments ago. I don’t think so.

You can’t stop us. I’m eighteen now. You can’t tell me what to do anymore!

I screamed that last bit, so hard that it actually hurt my throat. I didn’t see the slap coming, but I sure as hell felt it. Dad didn’t hold back. I felt the full force of his anger with the blow. Hard, stinging, shocking. My head whipped to the side and my jaw, everything, ached like crazy. Except for where his hand had touched my cheek. There, it burned like a brand that said, Property of Roland Collins.

I felt a determined composure come over me and I turned my face so I could look at my dad, the much lauded Roland Collins of Collinsport, Oregon, in the eye. I had never respected him less than I did right at this moment.

Are you done? I asked him.

I should have kept my mouth shut. I should have realized I’d goaded him too far. But the bravado I’d found this summer had pushed me to push him. Too, too far.

He reached out and grabbed my wrist and twisted my arm behind me. I could feel his hot breath on the back of my neck as he knotted his other hand in the hair at the back of my head.

You think you’re so smart? Well, let’s see about that once you’ve had a few days to cool down. I might consider accepting your apology, but don’t count on it.

I struggled against him but he had such a tight hold on me that I couldn’t get loose. He marched me upstairs to the box room at the back of the second floor. The one with no windows. He opened the door and shoved me inside. I fell over a couple of cartons and sprawled on the floor. It hurt but I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of knowing that. I quickly got to my feet.

You can’t lock me up! I yelled back at him.

An eerie stillness had come over him and the look in his eyes now terrified me. This was the man I’d heard other people talk about. The ruthless businessman. The cutthroat dealer. The man with no conscience. It chilled me to my bones.

Can’t I? he said softly with a smile that left me in no doubt that I was in way more serious trouble than when he’d confronted me about my diary. No one challenged Roland Collins and walked away scot-free. Not even his daughter. Let’s see about that, shall we?

He slammed the door shut—so loud it hurt my ears. I heard the key turn in the lock and then the slide of the metal as he removed the key and took it with him. The light switch for the box room was outside on the hall wall and he turned it off, initially plunging the room into darkness. Eventually, a small strip of light shone beneath the door. I sat down on a carton of God-only-knew-what and waited. And waited. And waited.

My bladder was hurting with the need to pee and I was just contemplating going by the door as a gesture of defiance. I hoped it would trickle outside onto the hallway and that Dad would have to walk past or, even better, through it on his way to his bedroom. But I saw a shadow appear beneath the door then heard the key in the lock.

It was Kenzie, my twin. My spirit half, my mom always called her. Except we weren’t all that alike. She only ever wanted to please Dad. Let him pick her classes at school and everything. Drove me mad. She could never understand why I wanted to do my own thing but for all our differences she was my sister and I knew I could count on her to let me out.

I stood and tried to walk toward the door but my legs had grown stiff sitting all bunched up as I had.

Kenzie! Thank God you’re letting me out, I said to her.

But she shook her head and passed me a bucket and a bottle of water.

Dad said not to let you out. But you’re allowed these.

What? And you’re listening to him? C’mon, Kenz. He can’t keep me locked up like this.

But she just kept shaking her head.

You made him really mad, Kayla. I’ve never seen him like this before. Why do you always have to upset him so much? You shouldn’t have done it.

Done what? I demanded. Fought back? Stood up for myself? Grown a spine?

I could see my words hurt her. Every single one of them a veiled insult against her yes-dad attitude.

No, slept with Tate, she whispered. That was stupid.

And there it was again. That word, stupid. I hated it. I am not stupid. I know my own mind, is all. So what if I don’t want to be my father’s puppet. I didn’t choose to sleep with Tate just because I didn’t want to go and play nice with one of Dad’s business colleagues so he can sign off on some stupid deal. Hasn’t he got enough money? We’re already the richest family in Collinsport. Why do we need more? Why is enough, never enough for him?

I slept with Tate because I love him, Kenz. We’re going away together—tomorrow night. You have to let me out.

Dad knows what you were up to. He’s never going to let it happen.

He doesn’t have to know I’ve escaped. You could just slip the key back under the door after you’ve locked it. I can let myself out.

Fear filled her eyes. Eyes that were the mirror of my own. I won’t do that. I don’t want him to be even angrier, Kayla. I love you, you know that, but—

But you love him more, I interrupted her, suddenly so angry I could barely contain myself. Fine. Suit yourself. Let him treat me like some prisoner. Punish me. Clearly you think I deserve it.

You shouldn’t have made him so mad.

She shoved the bucket at me then and put the water bottle on the floor before shutting the box room door and locking it. I knew straight away I’d made a mistake taking my anger with our father out on her.

Kenzie! I called. Come back. Please? I’m sorry!

But she didn’t come back. Not then anyway.

TWO

Friday, lunchtime, August 31, 2001

Where is she? Tate demanded.

Every cell in his eighteen-year-old body was wired for aggression. He hadn't seen or heard from Kayla since she’d left the marina last Tuesday afternoon and for him, after the summer they’d shared, it had been almost three days of utter torture. They'd been joined at the hip and, for the first time for them both, other body parts, too. And they'd vowed their love for one another would never die. Never.

Where you can't get her, Kayla's dad sneered from behind a tumbler of whiskey.

She was supposed to meet him at his dad's marina last Wednesday night. They were going to drive clear through to Vegas, get married by Elvis, and enjoy all the trimmings Tate’s wage working for his dad at the marina and RV park could buy, which wasn’t saying much but it would be the start of the rest of their lives together. But she'd never showed. Nor had she answered his multiple text messages or calls to her cell phone.

I want to see her. She's turned eighteen, you can't stop her from seeing me.

Oh, can't I? Roland Collins rose from his leather recliner and faced him. Look, son-

Don't call me son! Tate retaliated. Just tell me where Kayla is.

And then what? You'll run away together and both live happily ever after? Collins's laughter filled the room. I don't think so. Besides, she's gone. Got a better offer than a scrawny marina diver struggling to make a buck. My girl deserves better than you.

She loves me and I love her. Where did you send her?

She asked me to help her get free of you, you know.

Collins moved across the room and, with his back to Tate, refreshed his whiskey and poured a second. He passed the second glass to Tate.

I don't want your fucking whiskey! Tate said fiercely. I want Kayla.

So feisty. Let's discuss this like rational adults then, shall we? Collins said, pushing the tumbler into Tate's abdomen. Take it. It's better than anything you can afford.

With all the privilege of being a member of the founding family of Collinsport, Roland Collins made what started as a civil invitation end in a smooth insult. While Tate would have liked nothing better than to toss the amber liquid straight back in the smug bastard's face, he realized he wouldn't get anywhere unless he played the local businessman's game.

I’m underage. You shouldn’t be giving me this, Tate said bullishly.

Collins just laughed. Like you haven’t been sneaking beers from your daddy’s refrigerator since you were sixteen? C’mon! Drink up.

Fine, he said through tight lips.

Take a seat, make yourself comfortable. Collins gestured to the leather sofa that matched his recliner. And have that drink, boy, you look tense.

Tate's free hand fisted at his side but he did as the older man suggested and sat down before taking a hefty gulp of the alcohol. It burned and made him cough, earning him a disparagingly look from his host.

Ah, Tate, even when you know you have quality, you still rush things, don't you? And that's your problem, boy. You don't understand, or appreciate, quality.

Tate knew there was a message in the man's words, but was he trying to impart advice or was Collins just poking shit at him again? He took another slug of the whiskey, less this time and slower. Collins was right. This was better than anything he'd likely be able to buy, but he was still young. He had dreams. Dreams he and Kayla had made together. Dreams of a future, a life together. Dreams a man like Collins would never understand. And he didn’t believe—not even for one minute—that Kayla had turned to her father for help to break things off with him. She’d made it clear she didn’t trust her father one inch—forcing them to keep their love under wraps. Not an easy task in a place like Collinsport where knowing your neighbor’s business was considered an obligation.

Well? the older man asked.

It's good. Thank you...sir.

He added the latter as an afterthought—a gesture toward goodwill, if such a thing was still possible. If Tate could butter up the old man a little, maybe Collins would let Tate know where he’d hidden Kayla. Even as the thought occurred to Tate, he knew it was a pipe dream. Collins hadn't become the richest man in the county by being easily manipulated.

D'ya want something else to mellow it out a little more? Collins said with a raised brow. A little tablet maybe?

Tate had heard the rumors, just like everybody else. But he also knew that nothing had ever stuck to Kayla's dad. A widower for the last fifteen years, he'd paraded his twin girls at his side to every local gathering like some feudal overlord. The message had always been clear. Look, but don't touch. Admire, but don't for one second think you're good enough. He'd burned through several mistresses since his wife's death and showed no sign of stopping. Even now he had to be pushing fifty. Some people even said he swung both ways. But drugs? It took a special kind of slick to get that past the chief of police—especially when the guy was your best friend. Unless Chief Ackerman deliberately turned a blind eye.

A tablet, sir?

Yeah, you know. Something to give you a little kick. It's perfectly safe, Collins said with a sly smile. I won't tell, if you don't.

The man reached into the breast pocket of his shirt and pulled out a small plastic bag. Tate wasn't a total innocent. He'd seen the kids in high school exchanging these for money—and favors, usually sexual. So what was it that Collins wanted from him? The former or—his gut twisted—the latter?

I don't do drugs, sir, Tate said staunchly and put his glass on a coaster on the table in front of him. And I shouldn't be drinking, especially not this early in the day. I need to get back to work.

Ah, yes, work. You must be on a lunch break. You're at your dad's place, right? Woodrow’s RV Park and Marina? How's that going for you?

It's a living.

A living? No, boy, it’s an existence and a fucking miserable one at that. Collins threw an expansive arm out. "This is a living. I could make you wealthy beyond your dreams. Would you like that?"

And then can I see Kayla?

Fuck, he sounded so pathetically earnest. Not that it mattered as Collins continued to ignore every request that came from Tate’s mouth.

Your dad is a hard worker, Collins drawled before tossing the baggie to land in Tate's lap. Be a shame if something happened to spoil all that.

Tate's blood ran cold. Was Collins threatening his dad? Sure sounded like it. Fuck. He shouldn't have come here. He should have asked Kayla's twin, Kenzie, before bearding the lion in his den. But he just wanted to see Kayla. To find out why she'd changed her mind. To hear, from her own lips, why she hadn't arrived at their rendezvous point the way they'd planned.

It certainly would, sir, Tate said. His voice was strained.

Take the pill, boy. It'll relax you.

He took the pill. How bad could it be, right? Everyone was doing it.

There, that wasn't so bad, was it? Now have another sip of your drink, like a man.

Tate reached for the glass and did as he was told. A deep feeling of relaxation began to spread through his body. Whatever that drug was, it was fast-acting because Tate couldn't remember ever feeling like this before. He emptied his glass and tried to put it back on the table but Collins was there, taking it from him and walking over to the sideboard to refill it. Tate shook his head. This wasn't how he'd envisaged his meeting with Kayla's dad.

Collins returned, pushing the tumbler back into Tate's hand. He'd been more generous this time and some of the amber liquid spilled over the rim as Tate fumbled while accepting the glass. Tate’s head started to swim. He opened his eyes wide. He was going to have to take this next glass a whole lot easier or he'd never make it back to the marina. Shit! The marina. His dad was going to be livid he was here shooting the breeze and getting shit-faced with Collins when he was supposed to start cleaning a fishing boat hull after lunch.

Shhhank you, shhhir, but I really shhhould be going, Tate said.

Slurring your words, boy? Can't handle your liquor? Collins sat down opposite him and smiled. Go on, be a man, drink up.

The look on the other man's face should have been friendly but there was a dark glitter in his challenging gaze that made Tate nervous. As if he was on the verge of a precipice and Collins was just waiting to push him clean off. Tate blinked and forced himself to focus again on the glass and lifted it to his lips. What the hell, right? Be rude to refuse the guy’s generosity.

The buzzy feeling was getting worse.

I think I should go.

At least that's what he thought he said, but the words came out garbled.

What did you do to me?

Again, a tangle of sounds that meant nothing. Terror burned through him with the precision of a welding torch. Whatever Collins had given him was making him feel a little sick. What did Kayla’s dad mean to do next? Punish him for daring to touch one of his precious twin daughters? Kill him, maybe? Tate knew he had to leave, now. He went to put his glass back on the table but the tumbler fell onto the hardwood floor and broke, spilling its contents around Tate's bare feet. Weird, Tate thought distractedly. He could see it, but he couldn't even feel the small cuts on his feet that right now were seeping a little blood.

Feeling out of sorts, son?

Don't call me son!

The words almost made sense and were an act of defiance in a body that was rapidly beginning to feel like it was no longer his own.

I'll call you whatever the fuck I like, Collins growled. And I'll do to you whatever the fuck I want, too.

Tate’s tongue no longer worked, all he could do was stare at the man seated opposite him and realize that he'd walked straight into a trap of his own making. Kayla had warned him her dad was dangerous—that while he looked like he was full of bonhomie on the outside, beneath it all was a darkness that terrified her.

She'd said, over and over, that they had to keep their love secret. That they couldn't share their plans or hopes or dreams with anyone. Not even with Kenzie, who worshipped her father above all. So how had the old bastard found out? Had they been seen? Had someone run back and tattled on them?

None of that mattered right now. All Tate could focus on was the fury that poured in palpable waves off Roland Collins and he knew, no matter what, the man would extract his pound of flesh for what he saw as the ultimate transgression. Tate tried to move, to get to his feet, but his limbs had grown unresponsive. He was trapped inside his own body. His voice silenced. His arms and legs useless. All he could do was see and hear.

Collins rose to his feet and crossed the room to the sofa. Glass crunched under his hand-tooled leather loafers. He raised one hand and slapped Tate across the face. It should have hurt. Surely, he should have felt something, anything. Instinct told him to rise, to fight back, to show Collins that his summer of work at the marina had changed his body from track athlete fit to something harder, stronger. But nothing.

Stupid boy, Collins sneered. "You have no idea of the damage you've done. But you will know soon. And you'll pay for ever daring to think you could touch my girl. You ruined my plans for her. You’re gonna learn that anyone who gets in my way pays. She wasn't meant for you. She was mine. Mine to give away if I so wanted but now—thanks to you, you piece of shit—she's soiled goods. You fucked up when you fucked her. Tell me, was she worth it?"

The older man loomed above him and Tate watched helplessly as he reached for Tate's T-shirt with both hands and rent it open.

Nice, Collins said in a tone that made a complete mockery of the word he'd just uttered. You've gained some condition this year. It looks good on you. What a shame that no one but me will ever appreciate it again.

Collins traced one nicotine-stained finger across Tate's pectoral muscles then down the center of his chest.

Yeah, very nice indeed.

Nausea swamped Tate as he discovered he was helpless under the other man's touch, that he was no better than a helpless doll. Inside, he was screaming but the only sounds that fell from his lips were gibberish. Collins worked the button fly of Tate's jeans open. His meaty fingers brushed Tate's cock and tugged at his pubic hair.

Ah, going commando, huh? Well doesn't that just make things easier for me?

The man yanked Tate's jeans from his body, leaving him totally naked. At Collins's mercy.

Living his worst nightmare.

Tate fought his way back to consciousness. He had no idea of how long he'd been out but he knew what was happening to him—again. He could feel it as Collins heaved over him, his guttural sounds making Tate want to vomit except he wasn't sure he wouldn't drown in his own waste if he didn't fight the urge. All he could do was submit and try not to give in to the disgust that crawled all over his skin as Collins reached his climax and collapsed on top of him. After a few minutes Collins got up, slapped Tate on the behind and walked over to his recliner where a packet of cigarettes sat on one arm. The older man slipped out a smoke and lit it, drawing it in deep before walking, naked, to the deep picture window that overlooked the river and beyond, to the long, broad finger of sand and dunes that fronted the ocean.

Rage began to build. Rage at Collins's cruelty, at his arrogance that he thought he had the right to subject another human being to this gross degradation. With rage came movement, uncontrolled at first—jerky, like some crazed marionette—but within seconds he knew he could stretch out his arm from where he lay on the sofa and reach the broken tumbler on the floor. The glass cut his hand as he gripped it in his fist and he groaned involuntarily.

Over by the window, Collins turned, his solid, compact body silhouetted by the setting sun. Setting sun? How long had Tate been here? How long had Collins been...? He didn't want to go there, didn't want to think about how his body had been abused.

Ah, I'm glad you're awake. I was beginning to get worried about you. So, I guess, is your dad. He's been calling about every ten minutes. Collins gestured toward Tate's cell phone on the coffee table. Shit, you must be such a disappointment to your old man. He's going to hate seeing the photos of my dick in your mouth.

Sound erupted from Tate's throat. Feral. Wounded. Outraged. Collins stepped closer to him, lowered himself next to Tate's body and stroked the line of his spine down to his buttocks.

Like I was saying. I'm glad you're awake. While fucking you unconscious was fun, it's so much more satisfying when you actually know what I'm doing.

Every cell in Tate's body revolted, galvanizing him into action, forcing his recalcitrant muscles to bunch and move. He rolled away from Collins's filthy touch and his arm sliced up through the air—the broken glass clutched in his fingers driving into the side of Collins's fleshy neck. Blood gushed from his assailant, showering him with the copper-scented spray. Collins's expression changed in an instant, from gloating superiority to panic and abject fear. His hands clasped at the wound and he tried to rise to his feet, to stagger away—instead falling to his knees then collapsing face down on the floor.

A dark stain spread quickly around him as Tate released his hold on the broken tumbler and fell back onto the couch. All his energy spent—unable to reach the phone lying so temptingly close on the table in front of him, nor to attempt to call out for help. He was struggling to breathe, struggling to remain conscious. Was he going to die?

Noise made him stir. He felt lethargic, sick to his stomach. All he wanted was oblivion, but he knew he had to wake, had to push through the stupor of darkness that kept him trapped. Someone was kneeling beside him. He groaned and flung out an arm, pushing them away.

No!

No more. Not again. He didn’t want to be touched but they wouldn’t listen. Hands held him firmly—at his ankles, under his shoulders. He was being lifted, placed on a gurney. It wasn't Collins. It was someone else. Several someones.

Better get the chief here, a gruff voice on the other side of the room said. He's gonna want to deal with this one personally.

I'm here. Another voice, deeper and older.

Sorry, sir. I know he was a friend of yours.

Shit. Who did it?

The boy on the gurney. Tate Woodrow.

Tate? Don Woodrow’s boy?

Movement. Light. Tate groaned. Pain had begun to pierce his body.

Looks like he might’ve been drugged, sir.

Ah, shit, the chief of police repeated. Call the medical examiner here straight away and get the kid to the hospital. Make sure an officer goes with him. He's not to be left for a second, understand? And he's not to talk to anyone until I get there.

Yes, sir.

Not talk? But he had to tell them what happened. Had to find the words to describe the indescribable. Waves of pain, emotional and physical, engulfed him. Oblivion, death—anything was preferable to this.

A blanket covered him now. Straps held him against the thin mattress as he was hurried outside to the waiting ambulance. And just there, on his periphery, stood a slightly built female figure. Beside her was Cameron Haig, Collins’s right-hand man.

K-Kayla?

She turned away as if she couldn't bear to see him. Couldn't bear to know what he'd done to her father.

No, kid, that's Kenzie. She called it in.

Oh fuck. Kenzie found him...and her dad? He had to explain. Had to tell her what had gone down. That he and Kayla were the victims in this awful nightmare and someone needed to find Kayla and tell her the truth. But next thing he was wheeled into the back of the ambulance and the doors slammed shut. He closed his eyes but that didn't stop the tears from leaking out beneath his eyelids or the bitter shame from consuming him as the reality of what he'd been through began to sink in.

Where’s my son!

Tate lay still in his hospital bed as he heard his father's voice from the waiting area outside the emergency room. He sounded pissed. No doubt still mad at Tate for letting him down today. Donovan Woodrow was well known for his temper, but as Tate listened, he realized there was something else behind his father's anger. Fear. For Tate? Unlikely. More for what people would say when the news got out.

He’d thought the rape kit the hospital team had done had been bad enough, but now abject humiliation filtered through Tate's mind. How could he ever face Kayla now, after what her father had done to him? He should never have gone to Roland Collins's house today. Should have waited to hear from Kayla.

Let me see my son!

His father's voice had risen and the lower tones of someone trying to calm him down were indistinct. Whatever they said, it must have worked because no one came bursting through the curtain to see him. Tate was here with the same officer who’d followed his ambulance and observed his earlier examination despite being asked to leave the room by the attending nurse. Turned out, murder suspects were not entitled to privacy, especially not when they were still considered dangerous. The guy stood watch like an expressionless sentinel. Tate shifted and the cuffs that secured one arm to the bed clanked, reminding him he was a criminal. Slivers of memories pierced his mind. Of watching Collins collapse to the floor. Of the awful sounds coming from his mouth. Of blood pouring from the man’s body.

Oh, God. He’d killed a man today.

Tate's stomach lurched and he couldn't stop the stream of bitter liquid that projected from his body, over and over. He started to shake—so hard that the bed rattled and all the wires and cables attached to him shook and swayed. A nurse came through the curtain.

Oh, dear, she muttered. Let's get you cleaned up.

She wiped him down as if he was a baby and whipped away the sheet that had been covering him. He was still naked with one hand heavily bandaged. Now, shaking as if he'd never stop. The nurse tucked a fresh sheet over him and added a blanket, but Tate doubted he'd ever feel warm again.

A murderer.

How would he ever look Kayla in the eye again? How would he look anyone in the eye again? Would people ever get to understand why he’d done it? What he’d been through? Fuck, even he didn't know entirely what had