Page 80 of Love is Angry

“Sorry.”

“You can come in for three minutes,” she says. “I’m setting a timer. If you push it past that three-minute mark, I’m calling the cops, and no amount of emotional blackmail will change my mind.”

“Thank you.” Internally, I’m wincing. She’s cutting at me every way she can—she must think I’m following in my dad’s footsteps. I wonder if Madison thinks that way, too.

Sibel closes the door behind me and marches toward the big, granite and chrome kitchen. I follow her. She twists an egg timer and slams it on the counter between us.

“Three minutes. Go.”

Crossing her arms, she takes a couple of steps back and settles by the sink.

“I’m looking for the truth about my mother’s death—and I think you might know something about it.”

“Why would I? I wasn’t even there,” she says, her voice shaking.

“Eh—that’s not what I hear. Story goes, you were there, and then you weren’t, and then you left before she jumped. You spoke to her that evening, you hadn’t spoken to her in days, you tried to stop her, you didn’t know anything. What’s the truth, Sibel?” Only some of that was in her written and recorded statements—the inconsistencies weren’t quite so striking, officially. If they were, the red flags wouldn’t have been overlooked, and she would have been a suspect. But I read between the lines, connected some dots—and used mother’s diary entry as the true timeline, which doesn’t match what she gave the cops at all.

Silence settles heavily between us as she carefully finds the right words. “I wasn’t there when she died, Rhue. I can’t help. Sorry.”

“Do you think she killed herself?” I ask, watching her expression.

Her face freezes in a carefully-controlled mask. “That’s what the police said,” she said.

“But you knew her better than most. Are you telling me she’s the kind to kill herself when faced with a moral dilemma?”

She looks startled at that. “What moral dilemma?”

“A woman was raped by her husband in her house,” I tell her.

Shame creeps up her neck, red hot, as her eyes darken.

“She found out about it. She said she would do something about it—didn’t she?”

She looks away from me as tears spill over her lashes.

“Then—instead of doing anything—she killed herself. Does that sound like the Roxanne you knew?”

She shakes her head but doesn’t say anything.

“Sibel—did my father kill her?”

She freezes and the fine hairs on her arms stand upright as chills run over her skin. She presses her lips tight together and crosses her arms.

“You’re scared of him, aren’t you?”

“Of course I am,” she says, her voice a harsh whisper. “You should be, too.”

“I can beat him,” I tell her, throwing a whole helping of confidence behind my words. “But I need your help. What happened that night?”

She looks at me, her dark eyes traveling over my face. I know she can see Julian in my features—everyone can. I just hope she can see Roxanne, too.

“I got a call from her,” she says in voice that’s almost a whisper. “She sounded scared. She told me she needed me to meet her at the house immediately, then drive her somewhere. Before I could ask her anything, she screamed and hung up. I got there and I ran inside, up to her office—and Julian was stood there, on the balcony, furious. He told me to get out.”

My heart is racing. I feel sick. Suspecting him is one thing—hearing evidence like this is something else entirely.

“I ran away,” she whispered. “He scared me. I left—parked down the street—I tried to call her again—but her phone just kept ringing and ringing. Then the ambulance screamed past—and the cops.” She swallows hard, squeezing her eyes shut. “She was dead.”

“Did you tell the cops?”