Page 57 of Triple Trouble

He was silent for a moment, and I squeezed my eyes shut, waiting for the inevitable burst of rage. But to my surprise, he just sighed.

“I know. You’re not good at keeping secrets.”

I sat up. The drapes were heavy and blocked most of the light from the street — all I could see was the vague silhouette of his bed.

“You’re not mad?”

Xavier didn’t answer immediately. His sheets rustled and his dark shape shifted as he rolled over.

“How could I be mad?” he murmured. “As long as she’s happy, that’s all that matters.”

The tension in my chest released and I lay down, ready to go back to sleep, when I realized something was still bothering me.

“Xavier?”

“What now?”

“What about Adrian?”

Xavier grunted.

“What about him?”

“When he slept with her, you made us all agree not to touch her.”

Xavier yawned and sat up.

“Well, things have changed,” he said. “After how mad she was the other day, I don’t feel like I have any right to tell her what to do. If I were you, I’d be more worried about telling Adrian.”

He got up and padded across the floor without turning the light on. I heard the door open and close, a few minutes of silence, then the sound of the toilet flushing. He returned and climbed back into his bed, and I heard the sheets rustle again as he made himself comfortable.

Now I couldn’t sleep for a different reason — Xavier was right. We lived together, worked together, and a secret like this could tear our friendship apart. At some point, Adrian was going to find out. And then what?

He was his usual cheerful self when the sun rose and I dragged myself out of bed, finding him already in the kitchen.

“Morning,” he said. He’d already made coffee and was sitting on the segment of the couch that was bathed in sunlight.

Tell him, my inner voice said, but instead I gave him a stiff grin, and said, “Morning.”

I busied myself with the coffee machine while Adrian turned on the morning news. There had been a bus crash overnight, with thirty people sent to hospital.

“Terrible,” he muttered. “Just terrible.”

I wasn’t in the mood for a big breakfast, so I fixed myself some toast while the newsreader moved on to the next story — a twenty-eight year-old woman who had been murdered by her husband.

“A warning that the following story may be distressing for some viewers,” the blonde newsreader said in a deadpan voice. “Tributes have poured in today for a woman whose life was cut tragically short due to domestic violence.”

I’d been spreading peanut butter on my toast, but stopped when I heard those words.

“Initial reports indicate that Tina Band was killed in a murder suicide at the hands of her ex-husband, Craig,” she continued over a montage of cheerful family photos: Tina and Craig at the beach, running their real estate business together, at a family gathering. “Friends and family say that while Craig was a much-loved member of the community, it was a different story behind closed doors.”

I carried my toast and coffee to the couch, where I sat next to Adrian, transfixed by the television.

“Fuck,” Adrian said, and I sank into the couch. I’d lost all appetite for my breakfast, and placed it on the side table without eating it. It wasn’t like I’d forgotten the danger that Emma was in, but seeing the consequences of the situation play out in real life felt like a wake-up call. Especially when they showed the last photograph taken of Tina: in hospital, covered in bruises, barely recognizable.

The coverage shifted to an interview with Tina’s teary sister, who stood outside the house where the murder happened.

“She was the most amazing person,” the woman gushed. “We miss her so, so much.”

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