Page 58 of My One Week Husband
Her grip on my hand tightens, her eyes fluttering closed for a second before they open again, and she asks, “Was it your mother or your father?”
I press my lips together, draw a fueling breath, and shake my head. “It was William. He was the only one still alive. He’d stabbed them both with a kitchen knife. And then he’d turned it on himself and sliced his own neck.”
Scarlett’s entire body nearly doubles over, but she straightens quickly, clasping her hand to her mouth, gasping. “Oh my God.”
“He lived,” I say coldly. “He survived. I called the ambulance right away. They came quickly. They found me in the kitchen, covered in blood, crying over my parents’ bodies. And William, half alive.”
Her eyes flash with complete understanding, in all its awfulness. “The medics took him to the hospital and he lived?” she asks, like she needs to be sure of that one terrible fact.
“He survived the knife wounds to his own neck. My parents didn’t,” I spit out, the bile rising in me, thick and black. “I wish the bastard had died, Scarlett. Every day, I wish he had died.”
She takes my other hand, holding both of them, her voice fierce. “Of course you do. Of course you’d feel that way.”
“But he didn’t die,” I hiss. “He lived, and he went to trial. A year and a half later. I kept playing music—it was my balm, my salve. It was the only thing that didn’t hurt. And then the trial began. But the trouble was, the case was high-profile. Because of me. Parents of noted young concert violinist Daniel Culpepper.”
It’s the first time I’ve ever used my birth name with her, and she connects the dots, saying gently, “You changed your name after.”
“I did. I didn’t want to be associated with my past self. With who I was before. Because that person led to my parents’ murder, and to their killer’s mistrial.”
“How so?” It comes out haunted.
“Turned out the jury was chosen improperly. They watched the news. They read the papers. When the judge found out, he declared a mistrial,” I say, tension radiating in my bones. “The man killed my family with their own kitchen knife and got a second chance when he bungled stabbing himself, then a third with the luck of a mistrial.”
Her eyes well with tears. Righteous ones. Tears of fury. Tears of How the hell could they? “That’s when you punched the wall,” she says, putting all the pieces together. “You said you punched it when you got some news about your parents’ deaths. That was the news, right?”
“Yes,” I bite out. “I was heading to university on a music scholarship, determined to honor their memory, their support. And when I heard, I lost it; I just fucking lost it. I slammed my fist into a wall, and I lost the other thing I loved the most.”
I close my eyes, having done it, having said the hardest things I’ve ever had to say.
I sway lightly on the bridge, right into her arms.
And it’s as if she catches me.
Or maybe we catch each other.
I wrap my arms around her, drag her close, and clasp her against me like I don’t ever want to let her go.
That’s the trouble.
“Was there another trial?”
I nod against her. “Yes. Guilty. He’s in prison for life.”
“Thank God,” she whispers against my hair.
But the damage had already been done.
26
Daniel
On the one hand, I’m spent. My muscles ache, my bones weigh heavily, and my mind is exhausted.
But on the other hand, my body craves.
I crave something deep, something I’ve never truly longed for before.
Connection.
Connection with this woman who listened, who didn’t judge.
I’ve always imagined that telling someone the truth of my shattered family would send them running. After all, who would want to be with a person who could destroy a heart, a passion, a home?
But that’s not how Scarlett looks at me. She regards me as she always has, with open eyes and a willing heart.
Like that, we make our way back to the hotel quietly.
Her wigs are gone, our pretend names tossed aside. Once in the lift, I whisper a kiss behind her ear, saying her name. “Scarlett.”
Not Mrs. Dickens or Mrs. Rousseau. Not Mrs. Monet or Mrs. Brahms.
She’s Scarlett, and that’s all I want her to be. A woman who understands and accepts.
Is that what I’ve been looking for all along?
I shake the notion away.
I haven’t been looking. I’ve never been looking. But somehow I’ve been found.
And I want to hold her tight, never let her go.
As I kiss her gently, a sense of déjà vu washes over me. I have felt this way before.
This intensity. This rush.
I felt it when I was younger, felt it for the violin. Now I feel it for a person. It’s terrifying and wonderful at the same damn time to feel something deep in your soul.
