My heartbeat quickens, thumping in my chest like a terrible drum. I should turn around now and tell him that I unlocked the door and went inside. But part of me still hopes he’ll stop me, change his mind, and let it go… or that he’ll decide to confess on his own.
I want to be spared from this confrontation, and yet I need it. I dread looking over the edge of this cliff and facing what lies beyond, yet I climb toward it, step by step, steady and inexorable, while my heart thunders and my blood races through my veins.
My palms are sweating when I walk into our bedroom and pluck the key ring off the dresser, but my skin feels cold. I spin around, holding the keys out to Beresford. He extends one large hand, and I drop them into his palm.
He looks them over. He’s searching for the little golden key, and when he doesn’t see it, he lifts his gaze to mine.
We both know the truth. I see it in his eyes, the understanding of the key’s absence and the reason behind its removal. Heknowsthat I know.
And yet we continue our dance, edging toward the cliff, neither of us willing to yield until the last possible second. Vying to see who will push the other over the brink first.
“Sybil.” Oh, the dreadful depth of his voice. The cosmic disappointment, the monumental grief. I didn’t expect that. I expected anger. There’s a little of that too, blended with his tone, flavoring the way he says my name. But it’s mostlygrief. The overwhelming sorrow of shattered trust.
“Sybil, there is a key missing.”
“Is there?”
“Sybil.”
But I won’t move any closer to the cliff’s edge. I will force him to ask the question.
When I don’t speak, he says, “Give me the key.”
“Which one?”
“You know which one.”
“There are so many keys…”
“The key to the blue door. The one I asked you—no,beggedyou—not to open.”
The ache in the midst of his anger—that’s what hurts. And the answering pain in my heart sparks my own fury.
I stalk to the other bureau, bend down, and retrieve the key from its hiding place. I throw it at him. He catches it before it hits his face.
“That key?” I spit out. “Is that the one you want to see?”
He holds it up, surveying the bloodstain. “You went inside. After I pleaded—”
“But you commanded, too, didn’t you? You didn’t just plead. You threatened.” My voice shakes. “You had no right to demand so much of me, to expect such perfect faith, when we know so little of one another.”
His face is as white as a bloodless corpse. Even his lips are pale, framed by the blue beard. “Maybe not. But I dreamed, I hoped, I prayed that you would not look.”
“I did.” My lower lip trembles, and tears spill, tracing down my cheeks. “I looked, Beresford… if that is even your name. Is it?”
We are off the cliff’s edge now, free falling, spinning through emptiness untethered, with no hope of anything to break our fall. This is the end of us, as he said it would be.
“Who are you?” The words quiver on my tongue and vibrate in the shattered air. “Whatare you?”
He moves suddenly, and I shrink away from him.
“If you’re going to kill me, give me the courtesy of telling me the truth before you do it,” I say.
“Kill you?” He gives a harsh laugh. “I’d sooner kill myself.”
Sincerity shines through his echoes, reverberates in his tone. I can’t help feeling somewhat reassured, but I’m also confused. I grip the dresser for support, my hand splayed against my stomach, releasing a sharp breath of relief.
Beresford eyes me. “What did you imagine I was going to do to you, wife?”
