Vacant Heart

Chapter Twenty-Eight

The compilation of papers in Aidan's left hand shake under his duress, crackling in my silence.

In my utter silence.

The slopes and lines of his face are etched with pain, with betrayal and contempt. And why wouldn't they be?

An envelope containing information about the deaths of his two year old daughter and his wife, information that had been oddly misplaced until just recently, has been sitting at my door for a good part of the morning, I'd guess.

I have no idea who left it, although I have a good clue.

None of that matters.

None of it matters because in this moment, I've digressed back to a conniving journalist who will do anything for the perfect story. I see it plain in his eyes. The sorrow, the hatred, the resentment.

His hair is still wet from the shower, dangling over his face in thick, damp strands. His turtleneck clings to the shape of him each time he inhales, waiting for me to offer some type of answer to his question.

But I'm scared shitless. I have no reason to be. I didn't want these pages. I have kept my promise.

I'm scared because in those eyes, I see our end. I may not know him well, but I know him enough to understand what comes next.

He's grown tired of my meekness.

"Josephine! ANSWER ME!"

I jump at his bellow, which I'm sure the neighbors can hear. It probably woke them. I hold out my hands, shaking my head.

"Aidan, I don't know what's in that. I have no—"

"Don't lie to me," he growls, glaring at me wildly. "Don't you dare lie to me!"

"I'm not lying!" I shout, flustered by his hostility. "I swear I'm not. They told me they'd found more information—"

"Who's they?" he asks shortly, lowering the papers to his side.

"Samantha. Samantha spoke to a cop who said he had found information that was buried. I told her not to ask him to send it."

"I'm sure you did."

I look at him, cautiously. "I know what this looks like but Aidan, I would never do this to you."

"This type of shit isn't a damn coincidence, Josephine! This was at your door! I bet if my name wasn't on the front, if I hadn't gone out to get it first, you would have hid this from me, wouldn't you? You would have gone through it—"

"NO!"

"How far are you?"

I shake my head. It's throbbing. "What?"

He regards me expectantly, shrugging his shoulders arrogantly. "How far along is the story? Is it going to include Lady Chatterley's Lover? Maybe some bits of our fucking? How about my dead daughter? Will she make an appearance? You know I'd like to be prepared—"

"I'm not writing the damn story—"

"Stop—"

"NO, YOU stop!" I shout, storming up to him. "You have no goddamn clue how hard it's been holding my tongue as you hide yourself from me, to go along with your vague answers and riddles! But I've done it! I'd never go behind your back like this!"

He gapes, laughing furiously, gesturing to the sheets in his hand. "I have the proof! I have it right here!"

"It was on my doorstep! Not in a damn drawer! I have no clue what is in that!"