"You've been lying to me my whole life. I don't think Mom died in her sleep at all." Her voice drops lower. "A man doesn't order his wife's medical records and death certificate sealed if he's not trying to cover up a crime."
Warrick doesn't respond. He simply stands statue-still, arms crossed, staring at Asha like he's still trying to determine if whatever he's holding onto is worth giving up. His dark eyes are unreadable, but it's his lack of automatic response that has my blood turning to ice.
She just accused him of murder, and the accusation alone isn't enough to make his lips move. What the hell could be worse than that?
The silence stretches on for what feels like an eternity, and I keep my eyes glued on Warrick, waiting for a tell, something that says we have it all wrong. I see the moment something inside him breaks. His eyes close briefly, and when they open again, they're glassy with unshed tears. He releases a long, shuddering sigh, and the tension in his shoulders drops like the weight of whatever he's been holding onto is finally too much to bear. Without a word, he moves to the leather couch beside the bourbon decanter and sits heavily. Then, he opens the drawer beneath the side table.
We watch in absolute silence as he pushes on one of the corners, and the false bottom pops up with a soft click, revealinga pile of envelopes underneath. The paper looks old, yellowed slightly at the edges. He takes them out carefully, his fingers gently thumbing over the corners like they're made of glass. For a long moment, he just holds them.
"I didn't murder your mother." His voice is rough with emotion. "I loved her, and because I loved her, I kept her secret."
His eyes finally lift to connect with Asha's, and when they do, I see nothing but pain, raw, unfiltered anguish that's been festering for years.
"I didn't lie when I said I sent you to boarding school to keep you safe, but I did lie about the reason." He pauses, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows hard. "It wasn't because we worried about you getting hurt at school. It was because we worried about you getting hurt at home."
Asha's brow furrows, confusion replacing some of the anger. "I don't understand." Her voice is gentler now, uncertain.
"Your mother was sick." His voice breaks on the word 'sick.' "We sent you away so you wouldn't be here to witness her death."
Asha's fists clench at her sides, not from anger this time, but from sadness and the sudden understanding of what was intentionally taken from her. I'm at her side in an instant, wrapping my arms around her. She doesn't pull away, but she doesn't lean into me either. She's frozen as she processes his words.
Warrick traces over the handwriting scrolled across the top of one of the envelopes, and when he angles it toward us, the writing becomes visible. Asha's name is written across the front.
"She wrote these for you." He says it so quietly I almost don't hear him, still not bothering to look up from the stack.
"What do you mean she wrote me letters?" Asha's voice is strangled with a mixture of anger and sadness. "How come you never showed them to me?"
Warrick's fingers tighten around the envelopes, and for a moment, I think he won't answer. "Because I was scared of what they might say," he admits. "She wrote one for every milestone. College. Birthdays. Your wedding." He finally looks up at her, and the devastation in his eyes is almost unbearable to witness.
The next thing I know, Asha tears out of my arms and crosses the space between her and her father in three quick strides. She grabs the letters from his lap, clutching them to her chest like they might disappear if she doesn't hold them tight enough.
"What was so bad that you'd go to such great lengths to keep me from knowing?" Her voice rises, desperation bleeding through. "What did Mom die from?"
Warrick pinches the bridge of his nose and rises slowly before meeting her eyes. "Your mother died from ALS."
The confession feels like a punch to the stomach.Fuck.
"What?" Asha gasps, the envelopes pressed tightly to her chest. "How could you keep this from me?" Her voice rises to a near scream. "That is something I need to know!" Panic edges into her tone.
"I didn't tell you because I didn't want you to know!" His voice matches hers now, loud and desperate and full of years of justification. "That was the deal your mother and I made. She didn't want you to watch her deteriorate from a disease that may or may not take your life. She didn't want you to live in fear, and I didn't want to get you tested."
He takes a breath, forcing himself to calm down, to explain. "So the deal was she'd agree to no testing if I agreed to send you to boarding school to spare you from watching her die." His voice softens, becoming almost pleading. "Your mother's gene mutation was sporadic and rare. Fifty percent of people with the gene will live their entire lives and never develop the disease. You've already lived longer than her and?—"
"It doesn't matter how rare it was or that I've already lived longer!" she screeches, backing away from him. "I could still have it!"
"But why would you want to know how or when you might die?" Warrick's voice splinters with emotion, his hands outstretched toward her like he's begging. "I never wanted to know that information. I didn't want you to know and live anything less than a full, happy life. I didn't want that cloud hanging over you."
He takes a step toward her, but she matches it with a step back.
"Could you stand there and tell me you would have accomplished all that you have if you knew your last breath might be taken at age twenty?" His voice drops, becomes almost gentle. "Would you have gotten married?" he trails off, his eyes briefly flicking over to me before swinging back to her. "Or would you have prepared for a funeral?" He reaches for her arm, but she jerks away from his touch.
"That's why I kept those letters from you," he continues, his hand falling back to his side. "I couldn't be sure what they said. What if she told you? What if reading them made you want to know?"
Asha's head whips toward me so fast I flinch. "You knew?"
Her eyes are full of sadness and betrayal, searching my face for confirmation of her worst suspicions.
"What?" My heart hammers in my chest. "Sweetheart, how could I know that?"
