Page 94 of Silent Schemes

The lock beeps.

The door hisses open, and she’s there, shadow against shadow, coat clutched tight and hair in a braid down her back.

She sees me and freezes.

She sees the vitamins, and her pulse goes visible in her throat.

I speak first.

My voice is calm, almost gentle. “How long have you known?”

She doesn’t answer.

She walks in, tosses her keys on the island, and stares at the table.

The silence is a glacier, cold and unbreakable.

I wait.

Finally, she says, “Three weeks.”

Her chin is up. The bravest thing about her is that she never lies when it counts.

“My child?” I ask.

She nods.

“Were you going to tell me?”

A second of hesitation. “After.”

I let that hang. “After you killed me?”

She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away. “Yes.”

There’s a part of me that wants to murder her right here.

To end it before it can hollow me out any further.

But instead, I do the only honest thing left.

I break.

Picking up the crystal decanter from the side table, I weigh it in my hand.

It’s full, unopened. I throw it against the far wall, not aiming, just wanting the sound.

It explodes, whiskey everywhere, glass raining down in a miniature apocalypse.

I upend the couch, leather slamming against marble, shattering the silence.

I kick the table, break it in two, vitamins rolling under the piano.

I smash the nearest lamp with my fist.

The bulb bursts, slicing a line through my knuckles. Blood pours down my hand, hot and bright.

I punch the fridge, dent the stainless, then stalk to the far window and put my fist through the pane.