Page 10 of Into These Eyes

Jamie

W hen I step past the guard and lay eyes on Gavin Lake for the first time in fifteen years, I freeze.

That nineteen-year-old boy isn’t here, sitting in this cold, sterile room.

The man before me is truly terrifying.

Then he stands, by way of being polite, I think, but it only reinforces his menacing presence. At around six-two or three, the combination of his bald head, unkept beard and the muscles stretching his prison shirt, reveals an ominous beast born of nightmares.

I fix my gaze on the table separating us and stride toward the chair waiting for me, the click of my heels on the linoleum completely out of place.

I probably should have worn jeans and runners.

But, of course, I’d needed to make the lie I’d told my father about going to work convincing.

He most definitely would not approve of me being in the same room as the man who killed his wife.

Determined not to let Gavin Lake see my reaction to his appearance, I greet the counsellor sitting at the head of the table, slide out a chair and take a seat. Only then does the monster sit.

Does he think he can fool me by acting like a gentleman? Not a chance in hell. Though, by the looks of him, he might have come straight from there without a trace of bother.

Avoiding his eyes, I notice something out of place. Or, more accurately, the absence of something. I can’t see a single tattoo on his bare head, neck or arms. Everything else about him screams cliché prisoner. Except for that little detail.

Maybe he’s scared of needles.

I almost smile at the thought, then remind myself why I’m here and who it is I’m looking at.

As he settles in his chair, I meet his steady gaze.

The strangest sensation I’ve ever had washes over me.

Those deep blue eyes seem to penetrate right through the steadfast walls I’ve erected around myself.

His stare leaves me completely and utterly exposed.

If that isn’t startling enough, I’m not uncomfortable at all.

The intensity he’s directing at me isn’t hostility.

In stark contrast to his appearance, it’s filled only with kindness.

In fact, as I gaze into the depths of the monster I hate, a wave of calmness blankets me. I should shake it off, but I don’t want to let it go. I want to hold onto it and wrap it around my whole body. Snuggle into it and fall into a deep, undisturbed sleep.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

And then I realise, it’s simply because he's familiar. I may not have seen him in fifteen years, but those eyes haven’t changed since the weeks I spent looking at them in that courtroom. That’s all it is.

Placing my hands on the table, I clasp them in front of me. I’ve thought about how I should sit in this setting and decided on the partially closed off position. Plus, this way, he can’t see my hands shake. Though, strangely, they’re not doing any such thing.

With a slow, measured movement, he mirrors me. I feel like I should pull back a little, to keep more distance between us, but I don’t. I won't give him the satisfaction of believing he’s intimidating me.

His gaze finally breaks from mine, but he doesn’t look away. Instead, he takes in my forehead, my hair, my nose and cheeks. I watch his eyes move lower, to my chin and throat. To my breasts. And up to my lips.

I suppress the urge to ask him if he’s getting a good look, because I’m not so sure he’s even aware that he’s checking me out in the most obvious way.

Then he’s looking into my eyes again and I discover that his previous compassion has been replaced with what I can only describe as a war of conflict so strong, it’s almost tangible.

Something in me wants to calm him, wants to reach out and cover his hands with mine. I literally have to clench my fingers tighter to prevent them from doing just that.

Focus!

I drop my gaze to his mouth, then his throat. He swallows. As if it’s me who’s the intimidating one.

When I meet his gaze, he utters the first words I’ve heard from his mouth since he screamed that lie at me in the courtroom. The lie he’s maintained all these years.

“How are you?”

Low and deep, his voice vibrates through the air, travels toward my body and enters. Once again there’s a complete disconnect between the image of the man before me, and the gentleness and genuine care in his tone.

Brushing aside those ridiculous thoughts, I gather the anger that’s been with me for sixteen years. “How do you think?” I snap.

If he’s offended by my abrasiveness, he hides it well. Which pisses me off. I want to hurt him, make him crawl into a dark hole where he belongs.

Tilting my chin higher, I glare at him. He simply stares back, as if he has nothing to be ashamed of.

He shifts in his seat slightly, then runs a hand over his scrappy beard. “Stupid question,” he mutters. “Well, I’m eager to hear why you wanted to meet with me. Please, go ahead.”

Like he’s giving me permission . I glance at the councillor, who simply nods.

“I want you to know how you affected the family members of the woman you killed,” I tell him.

He glances at the empty chair beside me, making it clear there are no other family members here. “You mean you ,” he clarifies.

Every muscle in my body clenches. I had this crazy idea that I could distance myself somewhat if I made this about my family, but I won’t let him intimidate me. Of course this is personal.

“Yes.”

“Did you get my letters?” he asks.

Confused, I try to reel my brain back from what I expected him to say. “What letters?”

“I wrote to you when I first came here.”

“No, I didn’t get any letters.” If he’s telling the truth, what the hell happened to them? I suppose it doesn’t matter, because I already know what they’d say. And I would have ripped them to shreds.

Studying his face, I see disappointment.

Well, boo-hoo. Fuck him and his stupid letters.

“So that’s it?” I ask. “That’s all you have to say?”

A physical change comes over him. I watch his throat bob when he swallows, his shoulders slump, the silent exhale that collapses his chest.

He shifts in his chair, hands clenching into fists, then unclenching, his brow furrowing.

After a moment, he brings his fingers to the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes.

His body starts to vibrate slightly, the result, I realise, of his knee bouncing up and down under the table.

Whatever’s going on inside his head seems to be a battle. But what do I care?

Is he trying to make me feel sorry for him? Well, fuck him. “You killed my mother! Say something!”

I glare at him, waiting for him to deny it, to make every bullshit excuse under the sun. Because I know it’s coming. I see it in his eyes. He truly believes he did nothing wrong.

Nothing!

Taking a deep breath, he focuses on my hands. Too late, I realise my knuckles are white, my fingertips bright red from the crushing force I’m inflicting upon them.

His eyes meet mine, and this time, all I see is pain.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I’m so, so sorry.”

Something inside me shifts ever so slightly. “For what?” I almost whisper.

He swallows, his gaze never leaving mine.

“I’m sorry about your mother’s death. I’m sorry for all the pain you’ve gone through …

for all the pain your family’s suffered.

I’m sorry she doesn’t get to see your wedding, or your sister’s.

I’m sorry she’ll never meet her grandchildren.

I’m sorry your father doesn’t get to grow old with her.

I’m sorry for everything that the loss of her life has taken from you. ”

Tears well in my eyes. This isn’t the man who took my mother’s life. A boy who only lives in my memory did that. But, I remind myself, he was that boy. His actions as that angry, violent teenager still have the same consequences today as they did then.

“Please, Miss Evans,” he continues, “know that I understand, and know that I’m sorry for all of it from the bottom of my soul.”

Tears flow freely over my face now, scorching a path I wish he never had the privilege of seeing, but here we are. And somehow, I don’t care. Let him see. After all this time, he needs to see.

But that glimpse is all he’s getting. Slowly, I unclench my tangled fingers and rise, the scraping of the chair loud in the silence.

I thought I’d want more, thought I’d want details, thought I’d want to know the one thing about my mother’s death only he knows. But I don’t. I can’t. His apology needs to be enough. I have to put all of this behind me.

Swallowing through my tight throat, I manage to croak out, “Okay,” before I turn and hurry to the door. As I pull down on the handle, I can’t help but look back at him one last time.

And I’m shocked to see tears sliding down his cheeks.

The beast is crying. Not sobbing or shuddering.

Just weeping tears, his expression and body motionless.

It actually hurts to see him in so much pain.

I wonder if it comes anywhere close to the hurt my mother felt when he plunged that knife into her chest.

I hold myself together through the prison and out into the bright sunshine of the parking lot.

When I slide into the warmth of the car, I start it up, crank the radio and rest my forehead on the steering wheel.

Taking gulping breaths, I refuse to cry.

Gavin Lake has finally taken responsibility for what he did.

That’s what I’ve wanted for so long, so why lose control now?

I haven’t cried over anything since the night Detective Jarrod Reid came to our door with the devastating news.

Lifting my head, I stare out at the beautiful day and let my visit with him wash over me.

He understood. He’d clearly thought about what he’d taken from us, from me.

And I know without a doubt that he meant every word he said.

And I hate that I feel like a weight has been lifted from my shoulders.

I hate that seeing Gavin Lake again is the cause of that, that his words have done that for me, even though that’s the reason I came here.

Because now, I realise, I want to hold onto the hate I’ve fed off all these years.

I want to hold onto it because it gave me the drive to become the person I am today.

It gave me the determination to raise my sister when my father was incapable.

It’s given me the drive to make sure criminals like Gavin Lake are locked away, keeping society that little bit safer.

I want to hold onto that hate because it’s kept me stoic and put together.

It’s kept me safe, kept people at arm’s length, never allowing anyone to truly know me, and most certainly never love me.

I love that hate.

I don’t want to lose it. It’s so much a part of me, I don’t know who I am without it.

But I feel it slipping away like a breath on frigid air.

I refuse to let it go. It’s mine. It’s me .

I remind myself that only one thing changed today.

He’s finally said he’s sorry.

That doesn’t change the fact that he killed my mother. Do kind, understanding words wipe that away? Fuck, no.

As I sit there, not quite capable of driving yet, a breaking news story cuts through the music.

“The death toll from last night’s high-rise apartment fire in The Rocks has unfortunately risen to seven. The devastating blaze started in the historical building situated beside the City View high-rise apartment complex in the early hours last—”

I shut off the radio, suddenly aware that a few stray tears have managed to leak down my face.

Quickly wiping them away, I stare through the windscreen, seeing nothing.

Instead, I imagine the terror the people in that building endured.

The number of loved ones affected by their deaths.

The utter devastation and the excruciating grief to come.

And the sudden slap to the face that nothing is permanent, that life can change in an instant.

But I don’t really have to imagine it. I know all about it.

I also know all about pushing it down and getting on with what needs to be done.

As I sit there and think about my sister starting her journey as an adult and the worry I’ve tried to ignore about my father’s health, my hatred of Gavin Lake seems microscopic in the scheme of things.

I’m pretty damn sure the heartfelt victim’s statement I submitted to the parole board last year kept him where he was meant to stay. If it wasn’t for me, he could very well have been free a year ago. Without ever getting an apology out of him.

Sighing heavily, I lean into my seat and let the tension flow out of my body.

And I decide it’s not worth the effort to fight him again. I already know it doesn’t make me feel any better.

Besides, whether he’s in prison or not, I can still hate him.

And I will.

To my dying day, he will be a black mark on my heart.