KATHERINE POV.
“Did you ever go to therapy?” I asked softly.
He shook his head, his eyes still avoiding mine. “No,” he whispered. “My father said therapy was for the weak. I shouldn’t need help. I had to be strong.”
I felt a lump form in my throat, my eyes stinging with tears.
I tried to imagine eight-year-old Adrian, scared and lost, seeing his brother’s death over and over again, begging for someone to help him.
And instead of comfort, he was blamed.
I couldn’t hold back the tears now. How could anyone be so cruel?
I thought about all the times I’d said Adrian had it easy, thinking his life was perfect because of all the money and fancy things.
I remembered the hurt look in his eyes when I said that, and now I understood. Now it all made sense.
He hadn’t had it easy at all.
