Page 20 of Into These Eyes
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’llnever 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, hewasthat 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 whatI’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 withhimwash 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, thathiswords 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’sme.
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 devastatingblaze 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.
