quiet for a long time as a new tension settles between us. I’m reminded of what Brass told her—the truth about my involvement in his case being dismissed. An ounce of suspicion or perhaps hatred has come between us; unanswered questions and accusations unvoiced.
“I said I won’t forgive myself and I meant it.” There’s a coldness in my tone this time, a seriousness that’s been absent since she’s woken, but it doesn’t faze her, although she turns from facing the faucet to look me in the eyes.
The hot room heats even further as the steam billows out past the simple clear curtain that barely covers half the space.
Without another word, she carries on washing her skin, stiffening when the soap glides over the worst of the bruises.
“You’re angry with me,” I start and heave in a breath, prepared to let her take it all out on me, but she cuts off my next statement with a simple no. She doesn’t even bother to look back at me as fresh tears stream down her cheeks. It’s the first time she lets the water hit her face and I’m all too aware it’s so I don’t see her crying.
“I didn’t sleep while you were gone,” I tell her. “I did everything I could to get to you as quickly as I could.” The excuses crowd themselves at the back of my throat just as my hands ball at my sides into fists. Her stern look breaks down into agony at my words.
My poor little mouse. I’ve seen this look before. The pain, abandonment, the hate and denial. It fucking kills me to see her like this. Shut off to the world. I know it all too well. It’s a look I’ve worn for years, but it’s not for her.
Not for my Delilah.
“If I were to tell you that the idea of you falling asleep at night, not having the same confidence, the same fight, the same love and devotion you had before I came into your life …”
“Stop it,” she commands me and then both of her hands cover her face. The sob is barely heard but her shoulders quake with it.
Daring to continue, I watch every nuance of her response as I tell her, “If a night passes where you don’t have those pieces of what make you the woman I fell for … I would never forgive myself. If I were to say such a statement to you,” I pause and swallow thickly before continuing, “would you try to let me in right now?”
“Please, I am not okay right now,” she tells me, lowering her hands and staring straight ahead.
“I know. And I hate myself for it. I won’t forgive myself—”
“Forgiveness.” She bites out the word as if she hates it. “I’m certain you have many other things you don’t forgive yourself for. Why should I be any different?”
Her question is a sharp knife to my heart.
“This is about—”
She doesn’t give me time to finish before the accusation leaves her bruised lips. “You let him go.”
“He was a pawn.”
“He killed those kids.”
“I know.”
“You of all people,” she starts but then stops, her nose scrunching as her body trembles. She reaches out quickly for the faucet and nearly topples over. I have to catch her and as much as she’d like to push me away, she doesn’t have the strength. With the water spraying down my left side, soaking into my shirt and splashing across my face, I steady her and then turn off the water. She’s lost weight, and this close to her, the darkness under her eyes is pitch black. Three days she stayed in a cell alone, beaten and left with nothing but the knowledge that she was there because of me.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her. “I’m so fucking sorry.”
“Why?” she questions in a pained whisper as more tears gather in her eyes. “Why did you do it?”
“Because there was someone else who needed to die. Because I thought I could play God.” I answer her honestly as she falls into my arms, her wet hair soaking my shoulder.
It’s been a long time since regret overcame every emotion I held. In this moment, it’s all I can feel other than agonizing pain. “If I tell you I was wrong, if I tell you I would take it back, would you even believe me?”
She doesn’t hesitate to answer yes, which offers me a slight sense of relief. I accept it greedily, I take the glimmer of hope that she’ll