"I did," she says. "I told them, because it was better than the alternative."
"What, exactly, is the alternative, Karissa?" I ask, looking down at her. "Tell me why you really did it. Tell me why you talked to the police."
"I just told you why," she says. "If it went any further, one of you would end up dead. I couldn't just let that happen. So I told them my mother shot you, I reported her to the police, because I'd rather her be in jail than in a grave!"
These words aren't what I wanted to hear.
I hoped for a denial.
A stitch of repudiation that I could cling to.
I needed her to tell me it was a misunderstanding.
That she would never talk to the police.
But she's confirming one of my worst fears.
"And the other stuff," I say. "Why did you tell them it?"
"What other stuff?"
"Come on, Karissa… you just told me you weren't an idiot. Don't act ignorant now. They know things… things they wouldn't know unless somebody told them. Things I did. Maybe I haven't flat out told you about them, but like you said, I don't have to. You can put it all together yourself. So tell me, sweetheart, did you tell them how much of a monster I am? How I killed your father… how I killed your professor?"
The color drains from her face.
She knows I did it, but I never blatantly confessed to her before.
"I didn't say anything."
"So you didn't tell them I was coming after your family? You didn't tell them about the man at the body shop? You didn't tell them about the man who didn't come home from Vegas with us?"
"I didn't," she whispers. "I swear."
"And you expect me to believe you?"
"Yes."
"Why would I?"
"Because I'm telling the truth."
I want to believe there isn't more, that she didn't spill every dirty detail, but the evidence is stacked against her and she's already confessed to part of it. I want to believe in her.
I'm not sure I can.
"I didn't do it," she says. "Whatever they know, it didn't come from me. I didn't tell them anything about you. I told them my mother shot you. That's all. I swear. I wanted to stop all of this. It didn't want anyone else to die! I thought if they arrested her, she'd be safe. I thought you'd be safe. I was trying to save both of your lives!"
"And you endangered yours in the process yet again," I say, laughing bitterly as I back up a step. I need some room to breathe… to think. Running my hands through my hair, I growl with frustration, trying to purge the aggression that's building beneath my skin. "Do you know what happens to people who rat? Do you know what we do to them? Christ. You're supposed to lawyer up—that's what you do. You keep your mouth shut and they go away. Because that man? Jameson? He doesn't give a shit about me. He doesn't care about your mother, or you. He doesn't care about anything. All you gave him was validation. You gave him the justification he wanted to continue. The only person you helped is him."
"I didn't mean—"
"It doesn't matter," I say, cutting her off. "Don't say it unless you mean it. How many times have I told you that? Huh? You said it, and now you have to stand by it. And now I have to…"
Her voice trembles as she asks, "Have to what?"
Turning, I head for the door, not answering that question.
What am I supposed to say?
Now I have to decide who else will die because of this?
There are worse things than being alone.
Being lonely, for one.
It's torture, being in a room with someone, breathing the same air, but feeling miles away. The isolation you feel, sharing a bed with someone you can't connect with, is insurmountable. Some people get off on casual sex, they relish in the physical pleasure, but that's never been enough for me. I've slept with a few women since my wife died, casual flings that ended as quickly as they started.
I got nothing out of it.
Afterward, I'd lie in bed beside some woman as she bathed in a post coital glow, coated in sweat and body fluids, and feel nothing but desolation. Disgust. It reeked of desperation.
It was always the loneliest moment of my life.
Until now.
Karissa's lying in bed beside me, both of us wide-awake. I could reach over and touch her if I wanted, run my rough fingertips along the curves of her soft frame, but succumbing to the temptation feels a lot like surrendering. Sex, with her, always had passion, toeing the thin line between love and hate. Touching her tonight would be dangerous. I could just as easy condemn her as I could forgive her, wrapping my hand around her throat and forgetting to let go.
Sighing exasperatedly, I sit up, my feet hitting the floor beside the bed. I run my hands down my face. I'm exhausted, physically and mentally, but I'm not going to get any sleep.