Page 127 of What You left in Me
“Then hate me here,” I murmur, pulling her onto my lap, into me, around me. “Hate me until you feel better.”
“Don’t be sweet,” she warns, voice shaky. “It doesn’t suit you.”
“I’m not sweet.” I trail my mouth along her jaw. “I’m inevitable.”
She laughs, an actual laugh, wild and helpless, and then she kisses me like surrender can be funny too. I hold her there, anchored and molten, and tell myself the truth I never say out loud: guilt and lust aren’t opposites. They’re the same goddamn rope, and I’ve been pulling it my whole life to see if the bell would ring.
It rings now. It rings in her breath, in the way she says my name like a verdict, in the way her hands slide to the back of my neck and stay.
When she finally pulls back, she’s flushed and wrecked and more beautiful than any version of her I’ve ever earned. “Tomorrow,” she says, warning and promise. “We deal with the rest tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow,” I agree, because tonight is ours and I’ve already burned enough for one day.
She slips off my lap, shakily. She bends to pick up the anklet, turns it in her fingers, then sets it on the desk like a crown that’s been temporarily misplaced.
At the door, she pauses and looks back. There’s a line between her brows I want to smooth with my thumb. “Could you ever forgive her?” she asks.
I know what she’s asking. Could I ever forgive her mother for murdering mine.
“Anything for you.”
She smiles, “Do it for yourself, Finn. Only ifyouwant to.”
Chapter 38 – Ariane - The Hollow House
The house is silent without her heels. That’s how I know she’s really gone. The persistent, rhythmic click of Eleanor Wagner is gone, replaced by a silence that feels like it’s mocking me. The walls still hold her perfume, faint, too-sweet, and ghostly, which clings to everything.
The staff has mastered the art of pretending not to see me. The maid who found me and Finn that night, Lydia, won’t even make eye contact anymore, probably afraid I might fire her. I don’t blame her. I can’t stand the sight of myself either.
Richard says it this morning, his voice too calm, too steady for something that big. “Your mother’s gone,” he muttered over tea, not even looking at me. “But you’re still my daughter.”
I look at him, not trusting myself with words. This is it. She just left? I sent her a message this morning, but the bubble was green instead of blue. All the calls I’ve made have gone straight to voicemail. No when, no where, no goodbye note tucked under a teacup.She’s just gone.
The teapot steams quietly between us. The clock ticking slowly, reminding us of every passing moment. He stirs his tea even though there isn’t any sugar in it.How the hell is the world going to keep pretending everything’s normal.
Even though Richard barely speaks anymore, I know it’ll get better. I’ve noticed him wander the halls like he’s looking for something he misplaced— his heart, maybe. I look up at him and give him a tight smile even though he’s lost in his thoughts. He looks older, frailer, like someone deflated him overnight.
“Do you want something to go with your tea?” I ask, trying to pretend our world hasn’t shattered.
He waves his hand at me.
I don’t push. It feels cruel to force food into a body full of grief.
I sigh, my mind going back to the one person I can’t stop obsessing over. Finn. He’s gone. Again. He didn’t tell me where he was going and given everything that’s happened recently, I consider that a blessing in disguise. When I woke up today, his car was gone, his room stripped of anything that looked personal except for the anklet. Like the fool that I am, I put it on until it clicked shut.
It’s been a week since the explosion. A week since the slap, the shouting, the truth that ripped through us like a bomb. Nothing will ever be the same again.
I get up, leaving Richard to his thoughts and walk towards my room. I just want to rot in my bed and do nothing all day long. Instead, I find myself outside Mom’s room without meaning to. I stand there for a full minute, hand on the door, trying to decide if I’m brave or stupid. Probably both.
I take in a deep breath and open it anyway.
The room is cold. The bed is half-made, her vanity still cluttered with lipsticks and powders, her favorite mirror streaked with fingerprints. She must’ve left in a hurry. The pearls she always wore sit on the dresser, a neat little pile of memories she didn’t bother taking.
I walk towards it and touch her necklace. God, I hate how familiar it feels. I take a step back but my eyes catch something unfamiliar. A folded note under the jewelry box. Without hesitating I reach for it and open it. Her handwriting, edgy, elegant, and cruelly precise:I had no choice.
No signature. No goodbye. Just another one of her statements.
“Fucking hell, mom.” I laugh. Actually laugh. Because that is so her. Cold, cryptic, and smug even in absence. She doesn’t leave apologies; she leaves reminders that she was always right. I am angry for myself. For everything she has done. But mostly, I’m angry for Richard and Finn. They lost the light of their lives because of my mom.My mom murdered someone. Someone innocent.I can’t even let my mind go there. But I know I have to. I know I’ve been avoiding even thinking about it.