Twenty-Eight

140K 5.9K 5.1K
                                    

***A/N: The comments left on stories do not necessarily represent the views of the author. If you are triggered by talks of self-harm, depression, or related mental health concerns, please avoid the comments in this chapter. 

_____

"Matthew, what are you talking about?"

"He killed her, Aubrey," he said with tears in his eyes.

"But wh-what? Wait." I pressed my palm against my forehead in an attempt to slow my mind from racing. "Do you mean some kind of accident or—?"

"No! I mean . . . maybe. I don't know for sure," he said while wiping his cheek. "But I know what I saw the night she died."

"What did you see? Start from the beginning."

He wiped his cheeks and collected himself, his eyes looking off into the distance as if he were watching it happen. "Mom got really sick when she was pregnant with the twins and she almost died when she had them. She got better, but she never fully recovered. She'd get tired easily, she'd still have days where she wouldn't be able to get out of bed, and some weeks where the doctors would have to stay at the house. A couple of times, they had to take her to the hospital."

His words bubbled up memories of my own. "I'm so sorry."

"But that day was so different. For the first time in months, she felt good. She was able to spend the whole day with us and have fun with the twins. It was like I had my mom back." He wiped his eyes. "We were all so happy. Except . . . Dad wasn't. He would barely talk to anyone the whole day. He looked pissed off, didn't want to do anything with us at all. And that night . . . I saw them."

His brow twisted again. His eyes filled with tears. I rubbed my palms against his arms in an attempt to comfort him.

"They never fought. Ever. He couldn't be upset at her for anything until that night," he said. "I couldn't hear what they were saying but he was mad, squeezing her on the arms forcing her to look at him and stuff. And then the next morning . . . she was dead." He started sobbing. Pulling him into a hug, I let him cry against my shoulder. "They took her out of the house in a body bag. He didn't even cry. He just stood there and watched her body leave, then he went back to work."

My skin crawled. None of it made sense to me but I owed it to him to listen without judgment. "Why didn't you tell me this before?"

"Because when I told Mildred, she said I didn't know what I saw. Like I was too young to understand what was going on," he cried. "I don't know if he did it on purpose or if it was an accident, but I know he killed her. Please, Aubrey. You have to believe me."

I didn't know what I thought, but I knew what he needed me to say. "I believe you."

He hugged me again. "Maybe I don't know what happened, but I know him. I know he's never cared about anyone but her, and never let anyone tell him what he should or shouldn't do. Until you," he said. He gripped me tighter. "If you love him . . . If he falls for you . . . I'm afraid he won't fire you if you make him mad. He'll hurt you. Or worse."

I felt sick.

. . .

I was able to calm Matthew down enough to function before he left with his friends.

It was too much to process, too much conflicting information. The man I knew was complicated, yet in many ways predictable. As much as I didn't know about what happened to Lara, nothing he did made me think he would harm her in any way. I even had a hard time believing he would have hurt her the way he hurt me—mercilessly but consensually.

The Widower (18+) | [Complete]Where stories live. Discover now