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“Oh? That sounds interesting. Are you comfortable sharing the story?”
Gabriel looks away. His eyes go out of focus like he’s visualizing things. “I was supposed to meet some colleagues at a bistro a few blocks from Columbia. I got there early and was seated at the bar. Ellen walked up and ordered a glass of wine. She was beautiful, so I struck up a conversation. But she politely shot me down. Told me she was there to meet someone—a blind date. I made her laugh, tried to get her to ditch the guy, though she was too kind to stand anyone up. Got her to make a deal, at least. I would keep my eye on her, and if her blind date turned out to be a dud, she’d give me a signal, and I’d rescue her with some sort of excuse. The signal was supposed to be that she would push a lock of her hair behind her ear. Ten minutes into the date, Ellen scratched her nose, so I walked over and pretended to be her cousin. Told her our grandmother was sick, and we had to go to the hospital. She sort of had no choice but to go along with it at that point. When we got outside the bar, she scolded me because she hadn’t pushed her hair behind her ear. I lied and told her I’d thought the signal was her scratching her nose. She called me out on being full of shit. We argued. Then I convinced her to have dinner with me.”
I smile. “That sounds like the opening of a romance novel, a meet-cute.”
“It gets better. Turns out Ellen was a student at Columbia. We were still on summer break. School wasn’t due to start until the following week. But when she asked what I taught, and I told her Shakespeare, she called up her schedule on her phone. Sure enough, she was in one of my classes.”
“Oh my gosh. So what did you do? Can you date a student as a professor?”
“Technically it’s a violation of the code of conduct. But we kept things quiet.”
“Wow. Well, I suppose it was fate in some ways.”
“We went back to the bistro where we met for Valentine’s Day every year, which was also Ellen’s birthday. I suggested we go somewhere nicer once, but she said she liked to celebrate the day by remembering her favorite gift—the day we met.” Gabriel sighs. “Things were good at the beginning.”
“Even though the letter was difficult to write, it seems to have done you a lot of good. You smiled when you just spoke about your wife. It’s an important step in the grieving process to be able to talk about the person we lost, remember the good times.”
He nods. “I guess. Maybe I’ll be less angry when I punch in my PIN from now on. Everything is her birthday—from my ATM code to door codes.”
I smile. “What did you do with the letter after you were done? I don’t think we talked about it, but some people find burning the letter symbolic of letting go after everything has been said. Others prefer to seal it up and keep it somewhere safe.”
“I actually got rid of it already. I brought it to her grave, along with her favorite flowers, and planted them both in the ground.”
My brows dip together. “When?”
Gabriel’s eyes meet mine. “When did I bury the letter?”
I realize it’s a strange question, the specific day of the week isn’t relevant to his therapy, so I do my best to cover up. “Yes, I meant did you bury it the same day you wrote it? I’m just wondering if you gave yourself enough time with it.”
Of course, there is no time requirement. My curiosity has gotten the best of me, and the question popped out of my mouth before I could think it through.
“I wrote it Friday and went to the cemetery over the weekend,” Gabriel says.
My eyes widen, remembering the person who watched me leave.
I had been at the cemetery on Sunday, and there were no flowers planted. Just some wilted roses on top of the headstones. The ground was overgrown and hadn’t been disturbed. If he’d come earlier in the weekend and planted something, I would have noticed, which I didn’t. So he had to have come after me.
Was he the person who had watched me leave?
No. No. No. Of course he wasn’t. If Gabriel had seen me, he would’ve said something, asked what the hell I was doing at his family’s graves. He certainly wouldn’t be sitting here today acting like nothing happened.
Would he?
Jesus Christ. Of course not. Why would he do that?
My paranoia is really getting the best of me today. I suppose that’s what happens when you’re hiding secrets. You assume everyone else is, too.
I have a difficult time focusing on anything we talk about for the remainder of our session. Luckily Gabriel seems to be in a talkative mood this week, and I can get away with a bunch of “tell me more about that” and head nods. For the first time, I’m desperate for his hour to be over. I need to wrap my head around some things we’ve talked about today. There are only a few minutes left when our conversation comes to a lull. I don’t want to dive into another probing topic with so little time left, so I ask what I think is a safe question.
“Anything else new and exciting happen over the last week?”
Gabriel frowns. “I almost forgot. I got a check from the estate of the guy who murdered my wife and daughter. Un-freaking-believable. What balls on that family.”
I stiffen. “Why does that upset you?”
“My brother tried to get me to sue after the accident. I didn’t, because what is money going to do? It can’t make up for the loss of lives. It would feel like I was trying to cash in. I don’t want that blood money.”
My heart races. I’d convinced myself it was the right thing to do, to give Gabriel the money. But maybe I was being selfish, trying to wash my hands clean of the blood.
