“It wasn’t an accident either.”
A chill crawled over my skin.
“My father was driving.”
I stared at him.
“He was drunk the night we fought. After the explosion, he panicked and forced me into the car because he wanted to leave town before investigators arrived.” Callahan’s voice shook harder with every word. “We crashed less than twenty minutes later.”
My anger flickered into horror.
“That’s how you lost your sight?”
He nodded.
“And before the police came…” His mouth trembled. “My father leaned over and told me if I ever spoke about the gas lines, your mother would lose the house, no insurance company would help your family, and everyone would know the explosion wasn’t an accident.”
I felt sick.
“He made a sixteen-year-old child carry this alone?”
Callahan gave a hollow laugh.
“He made lots of people carry it.”
The apartment fell silent except for the storm outside.
Then softly —
so softly it nearly destroyed me —
“That’s why I recognized your voice the first day at church,” he admitted. “I heard you laugh… and I knew exactly who you were.”
