But he isn't saying anything or demanding answers. He’s being reasonable, which makes it harder.
“Victoria,” he says. “Just say it.”
My eyes sting.
“I found articles,” I say.
When I don't continue, he prompts me. “Articles about what?”
“About you. About…” I swallow the lump in my throat. “Your wife.”
“Anna.”
His eyes close briefly, and when they open again, the calm is still there, but grief is occupying the space as well.
It looks fresh and very, very real.
My throat burns.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
“For what?”
“For reading them. For thinking that maybe…” I can’t say it. “For not talking to you about it. For all of it.”
He leans forward, forearms resting on his thighs, hands clasped loosely between them.
“For thinking what, Victoria?”
I look at him.
I cannot say it. Not to his face.
Not after he and his people saved me from… whatever that was.
Not after the way he held me in the car, like I was something precious he had nearly lost.
Not while carrying his baby.
His gaze does not soften.
I have to. I owe him that much.
Don’t be such a coward, Murray.
“I found an article that implied that…” I take in a sharp breath. “That your wife might have died under mysterious circumstances.”
“That I might have killed her,” he says plainly.
I wince. Hard. It’s painful and almost grotesque.
I press my lips together and wait for him to stand. To curse. To look at me as if I have become something beneath contempt.
He does none of those things. He sits back slowly.
I wipe at my cheek before the tear can fall all the way.
“I didn’t believe it,” I say, and then the words start pouring out of me in a rush, like a flood. “I swear to God, I didn’t. It was just the language in the article. Or rather, what it wasn’t saying. Well, it was in Italian. I had to translate it, but still. It was the way everything was private and sealed and carefully worded. And I know that can mean anything. I know wealthy families can keep things private without it being sinister. I know that. I completely dismissed it.”
