“You look tired,”Hildie said as she placed the half grapefruit in front of me, along with a heavily toasted and buttered English muffin on a plate.
“You couldn’t lie to me?” I asked with a smile. “Or pretend you don’t notice every little detail?”
“Lying doesn’t do you any good, and I think you’ve had too many people in your life lie to you.”
I leaned back in my chair. “That sounds like an accusation.”
“No, it was an assessment. When you get to be my age, you learn that holding your tongue is useless.”
“So, you can just say whatever is on your mind?” I asked in amusement.
“When I think it will help someone I care about, then yes.”
“Thanks, Hildie.” I sighed. “But you’re wrong. There are people in my life who tell me the truth. I just haven’t listened to them.”
“You weren’t ready to listen to them, but you’ll listen to me.”
“What makes you think I’ll listen to you?”
“Instinct. Eat your breakfast and then take a walk across the grounds,” Hildie said. “Maybe some fresh air will do you good and then you can take a nap.”
I reached for my espresso. “This should do the trick.”
“I’ll leave you to it, then. Enjoy your breakfast.” She turned and left.
I sipped on my espresso for a moment and then I picked up my cloth napkin and set it on my lap.
I ate my food without much excitement or appetite. When I finished, I stood up and walked out of the dining room to the front closet.
There were snow pants, boots, and a heavy coat in my size. I quickly got into the outdoor clothes, grabbed a pair of gloves and a hat, and was out the door.
The snowstorm had blown itself out sometime in the middle of the night. Now the sun was shining, and the sky was clear. Cold air filtered into my lungs, causing my chest to burn. I shivered as I trekked through a foot of snow.
“Why are you doing this?” Igor asked, suddenly by my side. He was dressed in a black parka and a red hunting hat.
A Russian Holden Caulfield,I thought with derision.
“Doing what? Slogging through the snow?” I asked.
“No. I meant, why are you torturing yourself?”
“I’m not torturing myself. I’m being tortured byyou.”
He shoved his hands in his pockets. “I’m nothing, Barrett. I’m nothing but a memory. I’m ashes in the wind. Why don’t you want to be happy?”
“Do I deserve to be happy?” I murmured. “After all I’ve done?”
“You killed me in the name of your family. In the name of love. Or so you keep saying.”
“It’s still killing,” I pointed out.
“And you’d kill again to protect Flynn. To protect your sons.”
“Yes.”
There was no hesitation at all in my answer.
“So, it’s not the killing that has you twisted up inside, is it? It’s not even your unresolved feelings for me. It’s something deeper. You know what you’ve tried to conceal, it’s finally sprouted from the grave you tried to bury it in. So, pull the vine out of your soul or its going to strangle you as it grows.”
