Ambrose marched home, bristling and swearing.
He entered his room and slammed the door. “I hate him.” He kicked the door. “I hate him!”
He bashed his fists on the door.
And something thin and sharp snapped inside of him. He pressed his forehead against the door.
Ambrose walked over to his bed, curled up on it, and sobbed.
I should have gone to her. Why didn’t I? Why didn’t I check on her?
It isn’t my fault.
It’s Mark Caten’s fault.
It’s Elsie’s fault.
It’s Jane’s fault.
It’s everyone else’s fault. Not mine. I don’t want it to be my fault.
I don’t want it.
Elsie. Elsie, I want…
His sobs got caught in his throat.
I want you.
He inhaled several shaky breaths.
He released it all in a anguished scream.