Page 27 of Death is Familiar

Two: He knew he made a mistake.

Three: He fucking went through with it anyway.

And four: I knew the location of the safety deposit box.

I re-read the letter once, twice. Each read through hitting me harder than the last.

I MADE A MISTAKE.

He knew he made a mistake. He knew and he did it anyway. Why didn’t he come to me? Why did he only leave me a note? How was it that he was in so far over his head that he could make these infuriating clues but he couldn’t leave?

He had made a choice. To continue with the mistake. Lawrence had always been stubborn. But the only reason he would have pursued something so dangerous, so wrong, was if he thought he was protecting me.

My heart couldn’t have clenched harder if someone reached into my chest and squeezed.

I MADE A MISTAKE.

It killed me. I fell to pieces.

The paper shook in my hand like a rattling leaf. Anger and grief fought for dominance. Heat burned my face. Hot wet tears pooled and collected on my chin, before splattering on the translated page. Tears blurred. Ink smeared.

I took one shaky breath after another, fighting for control.

The closed door between motel rooms would do little to mask sounds that wanted to escape. The emotions hurtling out of me couldn’t be tamed. And they were growing louder.

I wanted to scream.

Instead, I took a breath. Two.

I MADE A MISTAKE.

I heard the words in Lawrence’s voice. Deep. Warm. Apologetic.

Red splintered across my vision. My lungs ragged and heaving, I wanted to slap him across his stubborn face. Hard enough to leave an imprint of my hand on his dark skin. If he had just come to me. If he had left, he could still be alive.

I was angry because he chose to leave me. I was angry because his choice killed him.

I MADE A MISTAKE.

One breath. Two. Three.

My clenched fists pumped, knuckles whitening. No, that wasn’t going to work. I needed to shout at the top of my lungs. I needed to break something. Preferably something glass, so it would shatter into a thousand different pieces.

Get a grip. This isn’t you.

It sure as hell was me. It was me who felt angry, abandoned, and miserable. It was me who locked myself in the washroom and turned on the shower to drown out my tears. It was me, in my need to feel something else, anything else, that I punched the shower tile.

“Fuck.”

Pain radiated white and throbbing up my knuckles. I shook my hand, cursing under my breath, before cradling it close.

It was admittedly stupid, but it was also effective. The sharp throbbing took my focus out of my head and the swirling kaleidoscope of rage and despair slowed.

My breathing steadied.

One breath. Two. Three. Four.

My tears stopped.