The soreness I wake with is the only proof he was actually here.

I bury my face in my pillow and groan the most wretched sound my chest can create. I do it again and again, until my voice is hoarse.

There is no end to this. He and I are doomed to a cycle of endless heartache.

The past is unchangeable and it looms between us like a specter, dictating our choices and feelings.

But I will not wallow.

I have things to do. Time to get up.

I’m doing more research online at home, making phone calls and trying to decipher spreadsheets, when Layla calls.

I don’t want to answer, but her voicemail snags me. “I have news. New information you need. And it’s concrete this time, not speculation.” There’s a note of contrition, almost like she’s regretting focusing all her suspicions on Logan. The thought of seeing her fills me with hope. Even if she is anti-Logan, she’s still my best friend and I miss her.

I meet her for lunch, and she starts with small talk. “Are you back in NICU?”

I sip my iced tea then shake my head. “I’m doing other things now.”

“Not because of this Logan thing, I hope. Don’t let him wreck your life.”

I close my eyes and force myself to inhale. “This ‘Logan thing’ has changed me for the better.”

“I’m sorry.” She sighs and looks at her hands. “What other things are you doing?”

I’m not going to lie or fake it. I’m telling the truth as is. “I have some ideas, but I’m not ready to talk about it yet.”

“I’m glad to see you excited about something new.” She smiles. “You really are doing better.” If by doing better she means weighing my heart on a scale of lies.

“I’d like to get back to work soon. What’s up?”

She pulls some papers from her bag. “I did some more detailed research. Something I should’ve done sooner. But here it is.” She slides the stack toward me, a list of records with two lines highlighted.

“What is it?”

“They’re highway toll records. Of Logan’s license plate.”

“Okay.”

“The second page is from the night your father died. There’s two leaving the city. And if you’ll note the time.” She points. “He drove home more than four hours before your father’s time of death.”

Confusion plays with my mind. I don’t know if I believe it or not. I just want to know. “So he left the hospital. You’re saying he couldn’t have done it?”

She shrugs. “All I can tell you is at the time of your father’s death, Logan’s car was miles from the hospital. For what that’s worth.”

I can’t process the information.

“I wish I could give you a concrete answer,” she says.

I sit back in my chair. “I don’t know what to think.”

“Have you asked him? That’s probably the only way to get a straight answer.”

My hands vibrate in anger. “You don’t mean that. You don’t trust him to tell me the truth.”

“You do.”

I’m not sure if she’s right. I’m not sure of anything anymore. Last night he wouldn’t answer me. I still think he could’ve done it. He had just cause to do it. He said before that my father died too easily. Perhaps he did.

Would Logan tell me the truth if I asked? Would I believe him?

Layla leans forward. “How many times did he actually lie to you? Not by omission, I mean. Just out and out lied.”

“Never. But he refused to answer last night when I asked him.”

“You saw him?” her eyes brighten. “And you point-blank asked him?”

“Well.” I blush. I can still feel him, lying on top of me, moving inside me, his mouth on me, his words in my ear.

Layla laughs. “Sleeping with the enemy.”

“It wasn’t . . .” I can’t defend myself. She won’t understand.

“You can’t ask him during sex. That doesn’t count.”

I almost smile. “I guess not.” I’m not sure how I do ask him though, how I get him to talk to me. He’s not exactly the type to openly confess his deepest secrets. Though he has done it for me before.

Layla twirls her fork in her food, and shyly says, “Blake told me about your mother and how he . . .” She falters.

“How as a child Blake knew my father abused her?” I’m hardening to the truth and understand better what Logan said. It shouldn’t be hidden or tiptoed around. What she suffered should be public, out of respect for what she survived.

She cringes and shakes her head. “I’m sorry. It’s terrible.”

“It is.”

“Does it matter?” She looks up, braver, the hesitation gone.

“What?”

“Whether he did it.” She sits forward. “If Logan killed your father, isn’t it a good thing your father is dead?”

I’ve been afraid to really think it. A piece of me still clinging to the fact that, no matter how vile, he was still my father. The only parent I knew. Yes, he did those terrible things, but he’s still the man who raised me.

I shift in my chair. “It’s not that simple. Because he was a criminal doesn’t mean that’s all he was. It doesn’t mean Logan had the right to deal out his fate.”

“No, I suppose not. But if you’re still okay with having sex with him, that means . . .”

I don’t have the courage to answer. I still don’t know what that was last night. How I could need him so much I’d give in to him. But she’s right. Maybe I already have forgiven him. Maybe I just don’t know how to say it to him.

“Ask him,” she says.

“I will.” I don’t know how I’ll convince him to tell me, but I need to know. I can’t bear this separation between us. I need it gone. With a fierceness I can’t define. Maybe I’ll know when I talk to him. Really talk. Not talk during sex.

I get home before it’s fully dark so I can look for him. His truck isn’t parked by the beach, but he’ll probably be there soon. I park in my driveway and walk onto the beach. The camping spot is a little copse between the brush and the sand.

He’s not there. But I sit and wait for him.

With my heart in my hands. And hope on my lips.