“Mornin’,” she answers, her voice flat. “Did you sleep at all?”
“I’m fine.” I stroke her face, her hair, needing to touch, to confirm she's real. I have to tell her. I have to get it out. "Della, about what Leah said..."
“Dorian, I really do not want to start the day talking about Leah after last night.” And she lifts up covering herself with the cover… a shield between us.
The empty space where she was laying in my arms, moments ago, is instantly cold. “Della, please. We need to talk.” I reach for her hand, but she’s already moving away.
“Why, Dorian? What difference does it make?” Her voice is tired, hollow.
“It makes a difference to me. I need you to know what happened. The truth.”
“No,” she says, and the word is sharp, final. “I’m sorry. I can’t do this right now. I just want to go to the police, give my statement, and see her rot in jail.” She grabs a few clothes from the wardrobe and heads to the bathroom.
“Della…” and the bathroom door shuts before I can say anything.
* * *
Della
My hands are shaking and I try to stop them by grabbing the edges of the porcelain sink.
I look at the woman in the mirror and I don’t recognize her, but I know her.
A ghost. The ghost I’ve been for five years.
What’s wrong with you?I ask the ghost.He came for you. He’s here for you. Listen to his story, too.”
I shake my head, splashing cold water on my face “No.”
The armor isn't a choice; it's a reflex. Last night, the terror of being bound and helpless again, has slammed every door in my heart shut and locked it from the inside.
I can't. I can't be vulnerable. I can't listen to his reasons. Because his reasons, hispast, hiswife, held a shard of glass to my throat and tried to kill me.
I know this drill. I get dressed; I brush my hair in precise motions. I’m not building a new armor. I’m putting on the one I never should have taken off.
* * *
Dorian
The police officer shakes my hand, his expression a mask of professional sympathy. "We'll be in touch, Mr. Marshall. You all did well."
We leave the police station, the California sun feeling offensively bright. David looks at me, and I see the unspoken question in his eyes.What’s going on with you two?
I wish I had an answer. Della barely said a word to me since she walked out of that bathroom. She rode in the back of the SUV. In the station, she was a perfect witness—cold, precise, and objective, as if she were describing a movie she'd seen, not a nightmare she'd lived.
The moment we hit the sidewalk, she turns—not toward us, but toward the ocean.
“Della, where are you going?” I call out.
“I need to be alone,” she says, not looking back, and just keeps walking.
My first instinct is to follow, to grab her, to not let her out of my sight. David puts a hand on my arm. "Let her breathe, man. She's been through a lot."
His words hit me harder than a fist. He’s right. I watch her walk away, every step an agony, and force myself to stay put.
* * *
Della
