Because of me?

I clutched the gray fabric seat cushion between my hands.

Rowen thinks he finished developing the drug because of me?

"What?" I balked, staring at my ashen face in my side view mirror. "What—how—I didn't even know you were developing a drug!"

"I know," he said quickly. "Something you said . . . it reminded Rowen of your mom."

Mom? Rowen wasn't old enough to know my mother. Even if he was, I didn't mention her at dinner in the slightest.

"How is that possible?" I said.

My dad turned on the truck's headlights, and the black road was illuminated with a soft glow. Too bright, white and red lights flashed across our windows as my father sped up and transitioned onto I-90 West.

"Rowen never met your mother, but he was familiar with the circumstances of her passing. She hemorrhaged after giving birth to you—I think you bleeding in the kitchen triggered a connection for him."

Hemorrhaging. Losing too much blood before doctors could replace it. So that was how she died. I always knew that she died giving birth to me, of course, but my dad never went into the specifics of her death. I knew better than to press him for information he didn't want to give.

Pursing my lips, I said, "But the connection you mentioned is about her passing, not the drug."

"They are the same," he moaned into the windshield like a siren's mournful cry. "Her death and the drug are the same."

All at once, the blood in my veins transformed into shards of ice, ripping their way through my heart like shattered glass. By the time the sharp pieces were inside my atrium, it was too late. Tears pooled in my eyes, and I was staring at my father with wide, fear-filled eyes.

I wasn't afraid of death or the drug—though, perhaps I should've been. I was terrified that something my dad created inadvertently killed my mom.

My entire life, I was certain that my father loved my mother more than I ever could. There were moments, even now, when he was overwhelmingly empty, and I always imagined that that emptiness was once filled with love for her. I thought that, sometimes, there was so much emptiness because there was so much love.

If his drug played any part in her death, I didn't think I could bear the thought of who it would be worse for: him or me. The loving husband or the bereaved child.

He continued, "Yes, she was hemorrhaging, but it wouldn't have killed her. The doctors didn't understand—she responded to the medication and treatment. So I tested her blood." His voice broke. "It tested positive against a sample of the drug I created earlier that week in our apartment. That's when I knew that God didn't take your mother from us: I did."

A choked sob escaped my throat. "I thought having me killed mom."

"I know," he whispered. There was shame in his voice.

Like a clock, I stared into the moving red and white lights, letting the cars blind me as they passed.

"Please tell me if I'm wrong," I said. "You let me believe, for the past twenty six years, that childbirth killed mom when you had strong reason to believe that your experimental drug ended her life."

Silence.

Yes, he did.

I continued, "You were developing an experimental drug, in your apartment, with your pregnant wife, aware that she could be accidentally exposed at any time."

"I took safety precautions—" he started, clearly offended by my implication.

"She's dead!" I shouted. "I don't need to be a psychologist to assess the repercussions of that extremely, incredibly stupid decision!"

His knuckles grew white as his hands tightened around the steering wheel.

"You know me, Kam! Do you honestly think I would risk your mother's safety? BioCell provided me with more than enough equipment to develop and contain the drug safely. But safety measures fail . . ." he trailed off, gazing at the road ahead. Soft sounds of moving cars echoed through the truck. "I can't explain in words how much I regret my—as you pointed out—extremely, incredibly stupid decision.

"But I can tell you that the guilt, sadness, anger, and pain are nothing compared to the desolation." Water lined his eyes, glistening from the light of passing cars. "When your mom died, it felt like part of me died. You lost a ghost, but I lost a life. You imagined what life would be like with your mom, but I knew what your life would be like. It would be happy. So very happy." Tears dripped down his cheeks, and I couldn't stop that water that leaked from my own eyes. "She would've loved Colton, and she would be so proud of the woman you've become. The desolation comes from knowing that you will never be able to hear those words from her mouth."

I wiped hot, salty tears from my eyes, covering my fingers in a thin layer of water.

"My life is happy, dad," I said in a scratchy voice. "Because of you. Never question that."

"But if—" he started, tears still glistening in the dark car.

"No," I said. "If growing up without a parent has taught me anything, it's that we must be present in our lives, here and now. Life is too short to wonder, 'What if?'" I released a harsh, shaky gasp of air as I turned towards him. "It was wrong for me to insinuate you were responsible for mom . . . and I'm sorry."

Bowing my head, I shifted my eyes to the pitch black carpet.

"You have nothing to be sorry for," he said.

Minutes of suffocating silence passed between us. Normally, I found the buzz of moving traffic comforting, but right now, it was an amplifier, making every emotion and question that much worse. Sadness turned into anger, and confusion turned into distrust.

'My mom is dead,' became, 'My mom was murdered.'

'What is the drug?' became, 'Why would my dad agree to develop the drug?'

Absorbed with thoughts that I knew were unhelpful, untrue, or both, I distracted myself. I asked my father a question that I wasn't sure I wanted the answer to.

"Earlier, you said that mom passing away and the drug 'are the same,'" I said. "What did you mean by that?"

He quirked an eyebrow in the rearview mirror, before guiding the car onto the nearest exit.

"She died because of the drug," he said in a slow, even tone.

"I know that." Now, I amended. "What I meant is, 'What does any of this have to do with you successfully developing the drug?"

My unspoken question hung in the air like a cloud.

Was the drug supposed to be lethal? Did it 'work' on a technicality when it killed my mom?

"You," he said in a voice that suggested this was obvious.

"Me?"

"You're alive," he said, "yet your mother came into contact with the drug while she was pregnant with you. I don't think Rowen ever considered the ramifications of you still being alive before tonight."

"Wait—so the drug isn't supposed to be lethal?" I couldn't conceal my relief. My voice was brighter, and my body felt lighter. The muscles in my back relaxed, and finally, I slouched against the car seat. It was odd—I hadn't realized my body was stiff and tense until it wasn't.

"No, it's not. Technically, the substance your mother absorbed may not have been lethal. The doctors administered oxytocin to stop the bleeding. The drug could have interacted with the oxytocin, causing a fatal drug interaction."

"So . . . Rowen thinks the drug worked on me?" I said.

The muscles in his neck tightened, veins protruded from his forehead, and his eyes avoided the rearview mirror and the reflection of me within it.

"Perhaps," he gritted with disgust that wasn't aimed towards me.

Watching his reflection in my side mirror, his rod-straight posture, brooding expression, and tense jaw, I narrowed my eyes.

"Did it?" I said.

"Are you alive?"

I huffed in frustration, crossing my arms over my chest. The movement dug the seatbelt into my ribcage, causing me to shift uncomfortably in my seat.

"Can we skip the condescension?" I said, wiggling closer to the headrest, releasing the pressure of the seatbelt..

He frowned, dropped a hand from the steering wheel to itch his nose.

"It isn't my intention to be condescending," he said, returning his hand to the steering wheel. "But the less you know about all of this, the better."

"That quite literally makes no sense. If I know as much as a rock, how am I supposed to help us get out of this mess?"

"You aren't," he said. I turned my head to glare at him. His eyes were still focused on the dark, winding road. "That's my job. Now, pull out your phone and call Colton. I don't want that thing tracing us for longer than it has to."

"You can't be serious." I scoffed, shaking my head. "We aren't done with this conversation."

"No, we aren't," he said, "but earlier, you expressed a desire to make Colton aware of our whereabouts for the next few days. So I suggest calling him before you pass out. We still have a twelve hour drive ahead of us."

Twelve hours of driving?! I didn't sign up for this!

A bitter taste pervaded my throat, and I forced a smile. "Only twelve?"

A sound like a laugh bounced from his throat, and his lips pulled upward.

"Be quiet and call the lad before I do. I could be wrong, but. . . I don't think you want to hear that conversation," he said.

"Fine," I grumbled, pulling my lavender phone from my pocket.

The slim brick of technology snagged against the seatbelt. Groaning, I ripped it out from under the seat belt and violently began tapping the screen. Apps. Contacts.

Colton.

I clicked on the 'call' button and pressed the phone to my ear. After two rings, a low, melodic voice vibrated in my ear.

"Kam?" Colton said in a groggy voice that was higher than his usual pitch.

"Yeah, it's me," I said awkwardly, glancing at my father from the corner of my eye. He ignored me with grace, keeping his focus steady on the road.

"Is something wrong?" Colton said in an uneasy voice.

I sighed.

I never called Colton after having dinner with my dad. Never. I always showed up in our apartment, when I did, and slipped into bed with him. Colton knew that.

Yes, I wanted to say. Everything is completely and utterly wrong, and I don't know how to fix it.

Instead, I said, "Not exactly."

"Talk to me, Kamryn," he said with uncanny gentleness. "You never call this late, and you're not home yet. What's going on?"

I bit my lip hard enough to draw blood. The warm, metallic-tasting liquid made my thudding heart louder in my ears.

Swallowing, I said, "I have to leave with my dad for a few days."

Silence.

I pinched my eyes shut.

After a moment of silence, he spoke in a thick voice. "Is this about moving to Pennsylvania?"

My mouth fell open, and I choked on air.

"What?! No! Of course not!" I said, hasty to reassure him. "My dad just . . ." I trailed off, uncertain how to sanely explain BioCell, mercenaries, and a mysterious drug to my lawyer fiance. Colton could smell crap from a mile away.

I continued, "He needs some help with work. You know how crazy the pharmaceutical world gets with," I coughed, "chemists."

And drugs that accidentally murder people like my mother, who didn't die from childbirth, by the way.

The more I spoke, the more pathetic my explanation became. I facepalmed, tempted to curse aloud. The only thing that stopped me was the knowledge that Colton would hear me. Amending the truth was bad enough without Colton's concern and scrutiny.

"You sound . . . off. Are you certain everything is ok?" he said in a concerned voice.

I looked at my father, curious of the answer to Colton's question myself. Though, of course, my dad had no way of knowing Colton asked a question, let alone which one.

"Nothing is ever ok," I said, forcing lightness into my voice, "but that's just part of life. But I promise that I'm alright. I love you."

Colton spoke softly. "I love you too. When can I expect to see you?"

I scratched my head.

"I don't know. I'm hoping my dad and I will only be gone for a few days, but he said it can take up to two weeks," I said.

"What are you guys doing?"

My snort turned into a chuckle.

"Honestly? I have no idea. But he insists that he needs me here," I said. My dad nodded in approval. "Think of it as tying up loose ends, if you will. This work—he started it before I was born. I need to be here when he . . finishes it."

Was that the right word for what we were doing? Finishing it?

"Wow. That sounds pretty important, Kamryn," Colton said with admiration.

I sighed, lowering my eyes to stare at my hands.

"Honestly, I was hoping you would say the opposite," I whispered. How nice it would have been to have an excuse to turn around this truck and go home to Colton.

"You know me better than that," he said. "If you feel like you need to be there with your dad, I know you have a good reason why."

"You put too much trust in me," I said. "What if I was wrong? What if I should have stayed?"

Like an itch, I felt my father's eyes on me in the rearview mirror.

"Then you should have stayed," Colton said. "You can always come back home to me. And what's a few days, anyway? We have the rest of our lives ahead of us. Take a few days with your dad."

"Thank you," I mumbled, before we said our goodbyes and cut off the line.

My eyelids drooped, weighed down by heavy thoughts and exhaustion. I tilted my head back against the headrest and focused on the ceiling in a feeble attempt to keep myself alert and wake.

It wasn't working.

After minutes of squirming in my seat like a snake, my dad nudged my shoulder.

"Close your eyes and get some rest. We have a long day ahead of us," he whispered.

I yawned while I said, "I don't want you to be alone."

He smiled, shaking his head with some emotion I didn't recognize.

"I'm not alone. I have you right here. Sleep," he said.

Nodding off, I twisted my head on the headrest and closed my eyes. My father's even breaths and the nearby buzz of moving cars acted as a lullaby, soothing me to sleep.

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