Page 57 of My One Week Husband
Love is such a dangerous thing. Love drives people insane. It makes them mad. That’s what I’ve always believed, until I felt it for the first time with her over these last few days. Maybe, just maybe, love isn’t as dangerous as I’ve contended. Maybe love is safe. Maybe love can make it okay to utter unspeakable truths.
That’s all I want. I want her to know who I am. Why I am. “He was my violin teacher.”
The look that crosses her green eyes is one of sheer horror.
“That’s terrible,” she whispers. “And I know that’s an awful understatement. And there’s nothing I could say that will give it the weight it deserves, but that’s terrible.”
She doesn’t know the half of it, but I’m about to tell her. My God, this is so fucking hard, but it’s also so incredibly necessary. I reach down deep inside myself and test out the words for the first time in ages. “I asked them to hire him for me. I tracked him down. He was the best in the country. He had been my teacher for the last three years before he killed them. A crime of passion.”
“How?” she asks carefully.
“He fell in love with my mother. It was sort of obvious to everyone. We thought it was a crush.” Like it was yesterday, I remember the jokes.
William has a crush on your mother, my dad would say.
My mother would laugh it off. He hardly has a 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.’”
