Page 176 of Captive Ruin

“There isn’t one,” he says bitterly. “If there was, why would she have been ill?” He turns the knife over in his hands, lost in his memories. “Over the years, Juliette deteriorated. She’d be fine for months, then without warning attack me. I thought I was provoking her episodes, and tried to give her space.” He grimaces. “That only made things worse.”

His voice wavers. “She developed severe paranoia and tried to divorce me. In a lucid moment, she begged forgiveness and pulled the paperwork, then gave me power of attorney over her. She knew the end was coming.”

Van Wyk meets my gaze. “I did love her, Amelia. How could I not, after so many years? But it was platonic, never romantic. Not like…” He trails off with a shrug of his shoulder.

Is that what he thinks we have? But I know he’s not done, and I can’t bring myself to speak.

“Juliette took a knife and cut her own throat. The doctors say it was a paranoid schizophrenic episode.” He falls silent for so long I wonder if he’s finished, save that his brow is furrowed, his expression intense, his memories so painful.

“I wasn’t even there, away with work,” he says bitterly. “But I know Juliette’s choice was inspired by this.”

He slowly raises the karambit, clenched in his fist, the curved blade jutting out, staring at me over it.

“I’m responsible,” he says. “Responsible because of this. Responsible because I couldn’t help her. Responsible because I wasn’t there. And for all my money, all my resources, I couldn’t help her.”

“Van Wyk…” I begin, not even sure what to say.

“The last thing she asked me to do was find someone I could love.” He laughs bitterly. “And look what I’ve done to you, too.”

Wait, wait, wait. Love? That’s twice now. Once implied in a sentence he never finished, once hidden behind Juliette’s dying wish. He hasn’t said it to my face—or has he? Did he say it yesterday? It raises a hazy memory, but does it even count, if he thought I was dying?

What we have isn’t love. How can it be? It’s toxic. It’s twisted. It’s not real.

Okay, it’s very real, but it’s not love.

“Let’s just… uh…”

“I almost killed you, just like I killed her,” he whispers.

He presses the blade to his own throat and watches me over it.

I freeze, staring at him. “What are you doing?”

“You want freedom? Go ahead, say the word. I’ll do it, right now, in front of you. Free you of me.”

“You didn’t kill her,” I say urgently. “She killed herself.”

“My influence, my responsibility, my fault. What’s the difference?”

The answer comes as an echo of what he once said to me. “Conscious and aware versus unaware and not even there? All the difference in the world.”

“I was aware,” he confesses. “I knew it was a possibility. I let it happen, because… I was weak.”

I stare at him, unable to find my words. I can only imagine her desperation, because I’ve felt it.

And with that, comes insight. “Was it a paranoid schizophrenic episode, or was it deliberate?”

His eyes narrow. “What are you saying?”

“A knife to the throat while you were away,” I say, thinking quickly. “Maybe she did it like that to remove all the blame from you.”

He hesitates, watching me.

Yet he’s still holding his karambit to his own throat. Is he planning to use it?

God, we’re both equally fucked in the head. At least we have that.

It’s warped and perverse, but there’s an opening here. “If you’re so full of remorse, will you do whatever I say?”