"I brought you food, Adam. Since when did you start driving to get yourself killed?" I lift the warm lunch box in my arms.

He's still staring at me silently, a cold gaze I don't dare behold, so I just stare at the bed, refusing to look at him.

"Is this my consolation prize?" he finally speaks up. But his voice is too low. Too dangerously quiet.

I know exactly what he's talking about. He wants me to admit to it.

I clear my throat. "What the hell do you mean by that, Adam?" I reply to ...