Page 229 of Chandelier Sin
Nausea welled up inside me that seeing my child was contingent on eating or drinking anything. My stomach twisted, the dull ache had me rubbing my belly.
Aemon set his glass down. “Drink your wine, dear.”
Refusing him was impossible. Atticus would finally see what I’d endured all these years. The quiet abuse, the anger, too—it was all poised to spill.
I reached for my glass and took a sip. It tasted of wasted years and bitter longings. Red grapes gone sour.
“You always did prefer sweeter delicacies,” he chided.
“You can’t help what you like,” I reasoned.
He turned to look at Atticus. “I knew there was someone.”
I wasn’t going to play this game. Atticus was too precious a friend to betray.
“Want to know how I knew?” Aemon continued. “I’d never seen that spark in your eyes before, that look of passion.”
He meant romantic love. An emotion I’d never felt before in all its complex colors and aliveness.
Sadness was reflected in Aemon’s eyes, as though he was the victim. I was too hurt to ever feel sorry for him. Too used up and burned out to have any feelings left. Those bruises may have faded but their agony remained.
“Why here?” I asked.
“I own this place,” he said.
“You never told me you even visited here.”
He gave me a thin smile. “I’ve owned this property a long time.”
A slither of uncertainty snaked up my spine. “While I was living here?”
He answered with a look of triumph.
Atticus nudged his plate out of the way, disgusted with what he was insinuating.
“I’m surprised.” Aemon assessed the man to his left. “He’s not exactly your type.”
A ridiculous thing to say. Before Atticus, I’d never looked at another man that way. I was always loyal, even as my heart had broken, even though he’d not been the one I’d chosen. There’d been nothing left inside of me to spare for another man. I’d been too engrossed in the need to survive. Hope was out of reach.
“What are we doing in this house?” I asked. “Why did you bring our daughter here?”
“Fond memories?”
“You’ve always owned this house,” I whispered.
And he had always owned those within it—a terrible revelation. What had he done with the others?
“I have always been fond of this location, too,” he said, inhaling deeply. “There’s a farmer’s market close by. Good shops.” He paused. “You used to climb that tree over there. I’d tell the staff to get you down.”
“I never saw you!”
“You weren’t meant to.”
“I don’t understand.”
Atticus caressed his brow, having pieced everything together before me, as though for me, the memories were blocking out the truth.
The ghosts of my past were like a silent scream, taunting and yet elusive.
