he looked straight out of the screen and gave me his characteristic little wink—so that my stomach turned, and my skin crawled.
I picked up the remote with shaking hands, ready to exorcise him from my life once and for all, when the camera panned, and I saw a woman seated in the front row, smiling and applauding, and I paused, my finger hovering over the off button. She was extraordinarily beautiful, with a long river of dark gold hair and broad cheekbones, and for a moment I couldn’t think where I had seen her before. And then . . . I realized.
She was Anne. Anne as she had been before Richard was through with her, young and beautiful and alive.
As she applauded, she seemed suddenly to realize that the cameras were on her, and her eyes flickered towards the lens, and I saw something there, although whether it was my imagination or not, it was hard to tell. It seemed to me that there was something sad in her expression, something a little trapped and afraid. But then she smiled more broadly and put her chin up, and I saw that this was a woman who would never capitulate, never give way, a woman who would fight to the last.
Then the picture changed and we were back in the newsroom, and I turned off the screen and went back to the couch. I drew the blanket over me and turned my face to the wall, listening to Judah making tea in the next room . . . thinking.
The clock on Judah’s bedside table showed gone midnight. We were lying together, his chest molding to my spine, his arm around me, holding me close, as if he didn’t trust me not to disappear in the night.
I had waited until I thought he was asleep before I let myself cry, but when a particularly big sob shook my ribs, he spoke, soft and low against my ear.
“Are you okay?”
“I thought you were asleep.” My voice came out cracked and hoarse with tears.
“Are you crying?”
I wanted to deny it, but my throat had closed up and I couldn’t speak, and anyway, I’d had enough of lies and pretending.
I nodded, and he put his hand up, feeling the wetness on my cheeks.
“Oh, honey.” I heard the movement of his throat as he swallowed. “It’ll be . . . you don’t have to . . .”
He stopped, unable to continue.
“I can’t stop thinking about her,” I said against the ache in my throat. It was easier not looking at him, speaking to the quiet darkness and the slivers of moonlight across the floor. “I can’t accept it; it’s all wrong.”
“Because he killed himself?” Judah asked.
“Not just that. Anne. And . . . and Carrie.”
Judah said nothing, but I knew what he was thinking.
“Say it,” I said bitterly. He sighed, and I felt his chest rise and fall against my spine, his breath warm against my cheek.
“I probably shouldn’t say this, but I can’t help but feel . . . glad.”
I twisted round under the sheets to look at him, and he held up a hand.
“I know, I know it’s wrong, but what she did to you . . . honestly, if it had been up to me, I wouldn’t have dredged her out. I’d have left her there for the fishes. It’s probably a good thing it wasn’t my decision.”
I felt anger rise up inside me, anger on behalf of Carrie, beaten and bullied and lied to.
“She died because of me,” I said. “She didn’t have to let me go.”
“Bullshit. You were only there because of her. She didn’t have to kill a woman and lock you up.”
“You don’t know that. You don’t know what goes on in other people’s relationships.”
I thought of Carrie’s terror, of the bruises on her body, of her belief that she would never escape Richard. She had been right. Judah said nothing, and I could not see his expression in the dark, but I felt his silent disagreement.
“What,” I demanded, “you don’t believe me? You don’t think people can be sucked into doing something out of fear, or inability to see any other way out?”
“No, it’s not that,” Judah said slowly. “I believe that. But I still think, in spite of it all, we’re responsible for our own actions. We all get scared. But you can’t tell me that you’d do that to another person, no matter how tough things seemed—lock them up like that, imprison them—no matter how scared