crush on me.
I’d chime in too. He must have a crush on her because she makes him tea and biscuits every time he comes over.
“That was it. A silly crush from a man twenty years younger than my mother. A mere twenty-five-year-old. Wide-eyed, awkward, and obsessed with music like I was,” I tell her, keeping my tone even, controlled. “A great teacher. He taught me how to become better, more nuanced, more precise. He taught me how to find emotion in the music.” I close my eyes briefly, squeezing them. When I open them, Scarlett’s gaze stays locked on mine. Her focus is intense and reassuring too.
Searching for more words, I come up short. She reaches for my hand, threads her fingers through mine, then runs her thumb over the top of my hand. She says nothing. She simply waits.
The river of Scarlett.
I begin the tale of blood.
“One night, he came over for dinner,” I say, taking my time with each word. It was a night I will never forget. A night that still blazes with cruel clarity. “He sat at the dinner table with us. We had chicken, a green salad, and asparagus.” I push out a forced laugh. “Such a simple meal. Some wine too, of course, for the adults.” I swallow past a painful, horrible lump in my throat. “We were celebrating. A concert in Vienna.”
Understanding flickers in her eyes. “Was that when you played Adagio for Strings?”
I nod, my heart thundering toward her because she remembers the music, the night. “We were celebrating. And he said that he forgot to pick up the cake at the bakery around the corner from our house.” I wince, bring my hand to my forehead, and drag it down my face, drawing a deep breath.
An image of William, his horn-rimmed glasses, his baby face, his simple but awkward laugh, taunts me. His words too. The last ones I heard from him before he changed my life.
I forgot the cake.
Another picture flickers in front of me. My mother flashing her warm smile, asking me to go fetch the dessert. “My mother said, ‘Daniel, why don’t you run down the street and grab it for William?’”
Scarlett winces when she hears his name. “And you went to get the cake,” she says, filling in the pieces, helping me as the tale turns bleaker and more grueling to tell.
I see it all unfolding.
The walk, the bakery, the familiar, jolly woman behind the counter who knew me by name. Who handed me the cake, saying, “For you, Daniel. Our superstar.”
I thanked her, turned around, and returned home, carrying the cake.
“A simple chocolate cake. That and me—that was all he needed to commit the crime.”
“You were only seventeen,” Scarlett says gently, her thumb still rubbing the top of my hand. “You were so young.”
I grit my teeth, staving off my emotions. “I was old enough to know better.”
“No, you weren’t. He was your teacher. You trusted him. Your parents trusted him,” she says softly. “You had no way of knowing.”
I soldier on, hell-bent on finishing, needing her to know. “I went back to my house, unlocked the door, and called out to Mum and Dad. It was eerily quiet. No one made a sound. All I heard was a gasping coming from the other room.” The entire tableau of horror slams back into me. “I walked into the kitchen, the hair on my arms standing on end, dread filling my whole body. My blood turned cold as the gasping voice croaked, ‘Help me.’”
Her grip on my hand tightens, her eyes fluttering closed for a second before they open again, and she asks, “Was it your mother or your father?”
I press my lips together, draw a fueling breath, and shake my head. “It was William. He was the only one still alive. He’d stabbed them both with a kitchen knife. And then he’d turned it on himself and sliced his own neck.”
Scarlett’s entire body nearly doubles over, but she straightens quickly, clasping her hand to her mouth, gasping. “Oh my God.”
“He lived,” I say coldly. “He survived. I called the ambulance right away. They came quickly. They found me in the kitchen, covered in blood, crying over my parents’ bodies. And William, half alive.”
Her eyes flash with complete understanding, in all its awfulness. “The medics took him to the hospital and he lived?” she asks, like she needs to be sure of that one terrible fact.
“He survived the knife wounds to his own neck. My parents didn’t,”