I realize I'm biting my lower lip and force my attention back to Dallas. I draw in a breath, then kiss him hard. I need that connection. That reminder of what is good and right in my world.
And then I go with them to the door and wait as Quince punches in a code. Dallas stands by, his hands clenched into fists, clearly burning to go in with me. To protect me.
Suddenly, I don't want to step into that room. For hours, I've been thinking that I can handle this. That I'm strong. That I've been through so damn much that this is nothing--nothing at all by comparison.
But that's not true. My skin feels prickly. My stomach still burns. I'm alternately hot and cold, and at the moment there's nothing I want to do more than curl up into a ball and cry.
Except that's not true, either, because what I really want to do is run. Far and fast and away from this place and this man who so cavalierly hurt me. Hurt Dallas.
But I can't. I have to stay. I have to hear the truth from him.
Most important, I have to do this alone.
And so when the door slides open, I draw in a breath and walk on shaking legs into the cell to face the man who was once my father.
Now, I think, he is a monster.
"Jane. Oh, thank god, Jane."
I hesitate just over the threshold, hoping that Colin can't see the way I'm shaking. I can still taste bile in my throat, and for a moment I'm afraid that I'm going to vomit all over again.
I don't turn around, but I know Dallas is behind me. I can practically feel the intensity of his eyes on my back, and I'm certain that if I show even the slightest sign of weakness he will come to my side, take my arm, and yank me out of this room.
Part of me wants him to do just that--to give me an excuse to turn around and not confront this man I once trusted.
But that's the cowardly part of me, and I don't want to be a coward. Not about this. Not anymore.
Right now, I need the truth as desperately as I need air and food and water. And so I straighten my posture, lift my chin, and walk across the room toward Colin.
Behind me, I hear the door click shut, and for just the briefest moment, I hesitate. Then I continue across the room, pull out a chair, and sit across from my birth father.
I fold my hands in front of me so that I'm sitting much like he is. Except that my wrists aren't attached to the table with iron. My fingers are twined together, and I'm clenching them more tightly than is comfortable. I hope I look casual. As if this whole experience isn't k
illing me. As if I don't feel like I am trapped in a nightmare.
"Jane," he says.
"Why?" I say at exactly the same time.
Colin shakes his head. His eyes gleam as harsh lights reflect off his tears. "No," he says. "No, baby, you have to believe me. What they say I did--I swear to you. I didn't."
His words squeeze my heart, and I wish I could believe. But I've heard too much.
I push away from the table and stand up. Then I turn my back on him and head toward the door, my heart pounding so loud I'm sure he can hear it.
As my hand closes over the knob, his cry of "Jane!" stops me. I hesitate, and then I turn. I say nothing, though. Just look at him expectantly.
"Don't go. Please, please don't go."
I shift back toward the door. "I'm not interested in lies, Colin. I came for answers. If you're not going to give them to me, then I'm just wasting my time." I grasp the knob again, and this time I turn it. I give it a tug, and it swings open a fraction of an inch.
"I didn't want to! Oh, god, Jane, I made a mistake. The most horrible mistake!"
His words slice through my heart, and I squeeze my eyes closed. I will not cry. I will not cry.
What I want to do is race from this room and into Dallas's arms. What I do instead is close the door, slowly turn around, and walk back to the table. I keep my eyes on the ground, though. I'm not prepared to look at him. Not yet, anyway.
Once I'm seated, I blink and swallow as I take a mental inventory. I don't want him to see on my face how much his sideways confession has hurt me. I don't want this man to see me cry. "All right." I lift my head. "Tell me."