Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 97535 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97535 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
“I just need a little time.” I open the letter again, clean off the mud and read. After a while, Zeke leaves me alone. I’m not done punishing myself. Not yet.
28
Isabelle
When I wake up it’s mid-morning and someone is pulling the curtains back. I half-expect Leontine or Catherine but it’s a man. For a moment I think it’s Jericho. He’s dressed in a dark sweater and black jeans which is unusual for him. Then he turns, and I realize it’s not him. It’s Ezekiel.
I sit up, my mouth feeling dry. I’m still wearing the sweater I’d worn yesterday but I can see my leggings on the floor where Jericho must have dropped them after undressing me.
“Good morning,” Zeke says. “I’m sorry to come in here and wake you.”
I look up at him trying to work through the memory of last night, of what Jericho told me. What he did to me.
I push the blanket off and cross the room to the dresser, not caring that I’m only wearing underwear and the sweater. It’s oversized so it hopefully covers enough of me, but I just don’t care. I pull the drawer open where he got that damn syringe and rifle through it, finding two more. I grab them, stalk into the bathroom and empty the barrels into the toilet before throwing them away. When I turn, I see my reflection in the mirror. See how haggard I look. I wash my face, rinse my mouth, and step into the doorway to ask Ezekiel what he wants. What message Jericho sent him to deliver. I fold my arms across my chest.
“What do you want?”
“You shouldn’t have given it to him,” he says. His arms are crossed over his chest too.
I’m confused. “What are you talking about?”
“The letter, Isabelle. It’s not how he should have found out.”
I look on the floor to my leggings. Zoë’s letter. It must have fallen out of my pocket when he took them off to tuck me into the bed. As if my comfort matters to him.
But my forehead furrows when I think about what was in that letter. I look up at Zeke.
“It was Zoë’s suicide note.”
He nods although it’s not a question. “How did you find it?”
“Jericho was in that room down in the cellar a few nights ago. He was looking for something and when he didn’t find it, he threw a box at the wall. He knocked the picture askew. I saw the beads of the rosary and went down to investigate later when I was alone.”
“It wasn’t your place. That letter wasn’t for you.”
I bite my lip. “I didn’t know what I’d find and you’re right that it wasn’t for me, but it was for Jericho.” I am surprised to hear myself say it. Hear myself defending my husband.
He presses his lips together in a thin line. “I was protecting my brother.”
I nod, walk back into the room. “I know. I’m sorry for what happened to her.” I feel my eyes fill with tears.
“Thank you. But that’s not why I’m here.”
“Why are you here?”
“Jericho’s in bad shape Isabelle. Really bad.”
I feel my forehead wrinkle but before I can ask anything he continues.
“I found him at the cemetery last night. Heard what I thought was an animal out there, but it was my brother beating his fist to a pulp against the stone of the mausoleum.”
“Shit. He went out there after reading it?”
Ezekiel nods. “He feels guilty.”
“I’m so sorry,” I say, wondering if I should have just left it in its hiding place.
“He’s downstairs now. Locked up in his study. Probably drinking another bottle of whiskey. Will you go to him?”
“Me?”
“I’ve tried. Leontine tried. I think you may be the only one who can reach him.”
“Me?” I ask again, surprised.
“You. Leontine took Angelique out. Dex is with them. I don’t want her coming home and seeing her father this way.”
“Okay,” I say, nodding. “Just let me get dressed.”
“There’s no time.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a key. He holds it up to me. “Key to his office,” he says, and I see the bruise on his jaw. I wonder if that was Jericho.
“Okay.”
Ezekiel opens the door and I take the key as I pass him. Before I’ve even reached the bottom stair, I hear music coming from the study. He has the volume way up. I recognize the piece. Mozart’s requiem.
Catherine is standing nearby looking worried. She meets my gaze and I try to give her a reassuring look then walk to the door. I don’t bother to knock, just slip the key into the lock, and push the door open. The music is so loud in here I can’t hear myself think. The curtains are drawn, the only light is the one I’d left on last night. There, sitting in my vacated seat is my husband. My husband looking like a broken man. A near empty bottle of whiskey on the table beside him. He’s learning forward, elbows on knees, hands clasped between them, head hanging, hair messy. His clothes are dirty. His shoes off. And the smell of whiskey and pain permeates the room.