Something jars in my head. Rummaging through the mass of details, I grasp for the relevant facts.
‘But he died of a brain haemorrhage,’ I say. ‘Two weeks later.’
‘I know. And it’s no coincidence.’
‘It might be.’
‘It’s not,’ he says emphatically. ‘I caused his death, and that’s three people, Maya. Three.’
I put down my mug.
‘You didn’t kill your wife,’ I remind him. ‘That wasn’t your fault. And if you hadn’t pushed Boyd, he would have come back … time and time again. And what you did to your stepfather …’
‘Was murder.’
‘No. It’s just like what happened with Boyd, you didn’t plan it. That’s not murder.’
‘Then what is it?’
‘Legally speaking? Manslaughter, at the very worst …’
He cuts me off, his temper on the rise.
‘Call it what you want, but I killed him. So, if you want to walk out of here, if you never want to see me again, I understand.’
‘What?’ Where the hell did that come from? He seriously believes I’d dump him over this? I begin to laugh, a quiet laugh of disbelief. He must be exhausted, utterly fuddled by the last few hours, because that’s the only decent reason I can think of for the rubbish that’s just spilled out of his mouth. ‘You’d give up that easily?’
He narrows his eyes.
‘I love you. You’re the only woman I’ve ever loved, but I never want to see you miserable, and if staying with me makes you miserable, knowing what you know … I don’t want it.’
Oh boy, he’s just said the wrong thing. Disbelief’s right out of the window. There’s no room for it, not with my own anger bubbling up like a pan of milk. When it gets to boiling point, there’ll be no stopping it.
‘I know what this is. You’re as masochistic as me.’
‘How do you work that one out?’
‘You thought you’d killed your stepfather, you thought you’d caused your wife’s death, so you shut yourself off from everyone … for years.’
‘I told you,’ he growls. ‘I’d caused enough hurt. I didn’t want to cause any more. That’s why I shut myself off.’
‘No,’ I growl back. ‘You were punishing yourself because deep down, you think you’re worthless. Deep down, you think you don’t deserve happiness. And you’d love to go on punishing yourself. You’d love me to walk out of here so you can wallow in your guilt. But guess what? That’s not going to happen. I’m going nowhere.’ Realising I’ve begun to shout, I raise an unsteady finger at him. ‘So, you’ll just have to deal with the guilt some other way.’
‘How?’ he demands. ‘How do I do that? I hurt my sisters. I killed their father. I destroyed their lives.’
‘Their lives were already destroyed. Layla told me she was glad he died.’
‘So, does that make it acceptable? Does it? Our mother drank herself to death because of what I’d done. Was Layla glad about that?’
‘Your mother drank herself to death because of guilt.’
‘Oh, come off it.’
‘Guilt, Dan.’ I glare at him, determined to get my point across, even though I haven’t got a shred of proof. ‘Guilt that she’d been such a shit mum. Guilt that she’d ruined your life. Jesus. It must be fucking genetic.’
He bites his lip, obviously wrestling the urge to sling something back in my direction. But this has gone far enough. We’re sniping at each other, sliding into a full-blown argument. And this isn’t the time.
‘What you did,’ I say, ‘I understand.’
He shakes his head.
‘After everything you’d been through, I understand why you lost it. I understand why you lashed out. I don’t condone it, but I understand. Get that into your thick head.’
In a huff, I walk off to the window, cross my arms and stare at the blue sky. I need to calm down. I need to get this back on track. And I need to banish anger, because true to form, it’s achieving nothing. As the seconds tick by, I’m aware of a movement behind me. He’s getting up, coming to join me.
‘I’ll find a way to deal with it. I’m sorry.’
‘I don’t know why you’re apologising. Life dealt you a shit hand. You made mistakes – we all make mistakes – but you’ve got a conscience, Dan. You regret what you did, and that’s why I’ll never walk away.’ I look at him. ‘Tell me this is the last bombshell … and mean it.’
‘This is the last,’ he confirms, his eyes softened. ‘I swear. I wanted to tell you, but there was never a right time.’
‘Never is.’
‘How do you slip something like that into conversation?’ He touches my arm. ‘It’s the last layer. You’ve peeled them all back, every one of them. You’ve got right to the heart of me.’ He pauses, watching my every reaction. ‘I just hope you can still love me.’
‘How could I ever stop?’
Slowly, tentatively, he takes me into his arms.
‘So, how are we going to deal with this?’ I ask.
He shakes his head. He clearly has no idea.
‘You
