Page 147 of Fighting Mr. Knight

Maybe coming here wasn’t a good idea. If looks could kill, I would be meat for Lucy.

I swallow the massive lump in my throat. “Can I come in?”

“There’s nothing more to say.”

He’s different today.

He’s cold and detached. The anger that burned through him on Friday is gone.

Somehow this woodenness is much, much scarier.

My eyes fill with tears. “I can’t stand us not talking.”

“I was brought up that if you don’t have something nice to say to a lady, then don’t say anything. But I’ll make myself clearer,” he grits his teeth, “I’m not interested in anything else you have to say.”

I feel a sharp sting of pain from his words.He can’t mean them.

“So, what, it’s over?” My voice breaks.

“I thought I made that clear on Friday night,” he says in a detached tone. His eyes skim over my body. “What did you do to your knees?”

I smile sadly and shrug. Does he think I give a shit about my knees? “I fell. It’s just a little scrape.”

“Fuck’s sake,” he mutters, widening the door. “Come in. I’ll get a cloth.”

I follow him in because right now, I’ll take whatever he’s willing to throw at me.

He strides into the kitchen in silence. I walk behind him, so nervous I try to quieten my footsteps.

I’m glad Lucy’s out the back. She’s probably as angry as her owner.

With his back to me, he runs a cloth under hot water, then rummages to find the first aid kit in the cupboard.

The tension in the air is unbearable.

“I made a mistake, Jack,” I say quietly to his back. “I didn’t know what to do.”

He turns, his eyes cold. “You covered for your killer Dad.”

“He’s not a killer.”

“You know my father was alive for thirty minutes on that pavement?” His knuckles tighten around the cloth and every muscle in his body appears to tighten. “He could have saved him, but he didn’t. He ran away and let him bleed out.”

“I didn’t know that,” I whisper, feeling nauseous. “I’m sorry.”

“I don’t blame you for that, Bonnie. I blame you for lying to me.”

“I was going to tell you,” I repeat, knowing how empty that sounds.

“When?” He stares at me flatly. “When, Bonnie? When I proposed? When you got pregnant? On our tenth wedding anniversary?”

“No! I-I don’t know,” I stammer, leaning against the table for support. “Soon.”

He steps forward with the cloth and antiseptic and gets on his knees before me. In silence he washes each knee without any of the warmth I usually feel when he touches me.

I blink back tears.

He’s not doing it out of love or affection. He’s doing it out of obligation.

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