Page 19 of Into These Eyes
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 mepermission. 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 meanyou,” 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.
