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‘No.’ His voice was cold, and hard as steel. ‘You don’t have to explain. Was it to save this place that you came to me? Because I was going to bail out your father? Yes or no?’
‘Leon—please, please—’
‘You don’t deny what I’ve asked—that means it’s true. Isn’t it? Isn’t it?’
She could feel her teeth start to chatter. ‘Leon, please …’ Her voice was a whisper again, forced out past the agonisingly tight cords of her throat.
His hands on her elbows was like a vice. ‘Tell me it isn’t true. Just tell me that. Yes—no. Very, very simple.’
Her face was working. She was trying to speak. But she was powerless to do so. Powerless to give the answer she so desperately wanted to give him …
‘Yes or no?’ His voice was remorseless, his face implacable. ‘Yes or bloody no, Flavia?’
‘I … I …’ She could get no further. Her eyes were anguished, guilt and shame convulsing her.
Something changed in his face. ‘Your silence gives me the answer.’ His voice was dead. He dropped his grip on her.
‘Leon, please—let me explain—’ She reached a hand towards him—begging. She had to find a way—she had to tell him, explain … confess.
But he’d turned away from her, was walking away from her. She watched him go—helpless, stricken. At the edge of the lawn he paused, looking back at where she stood, frozen.
‘There’s a word for you, Flavia, for what you did. What you were prepared to do.’ He looked around him again for a moment, taking in all the tranquil beauty of the house and its sun-filled gardens, then back at her, his gaze slicing her open, lacerating her. ‘And it doesn’t matter whether you were doing it to try and save this place, because whatever justification you try and come up with the answer is the same. The name for you is the same.’
He paused, and took a ragged, razored breath. ‘I would have given you the world—all I possessed. What we had …’ He paused again, then forced the words out. ‘What I thought we had was—’
He broke off. Then wordlessly he turned, and strode out across the lawn, back into the waiting helicopter.
The rotors started to turn.
Like a giant bird of prey it lifted off into the air.
Leaving her carrion carcass far below.
Somehow—she didn’t know how—Flavia stumbled indoors. Got herself inside her bedroom and threw herself down on her bed. Distraught, fevered sobs seemed to crack her ribs and rack her throat, convulse her whole body.
How long they lasted she didn’t know—couldn’t tell. She only knew that when they had finally emptied her out she could only lie there, staring at the ceiling, feeling as drained and hollowed out as an empty husk of rotten fruit.
Facing the truth. The bitter, shaming truth.
Leon had every right to accuse her—every right to despise her.
I should have to
ld him the truth! I should have told him on Santera just what my father had done!
But she had been too ashamed to do so. Too fearful that Leon would despise her—too fearful that if he’d rejected her for what she’d stooped to then her father would have carried out his threat and taken Harford from her grandmother …
And fearful for more than that. Much, much more. As she lay, staring, tear-stained, up at the white blank ceiling, she faced the truth within her.
I was scared he would reject me for what I’d done—hate me for it. Hate me just when I was falling in love with him …
And now the truth had come out and he had done what she had feared so much. Thrust her from him, despising and condemning her.
And there was nothing she could do about it—because it was true. The truth had condemned her …
I’ve lost him and I can do nothing to win him back. Nothing. He’s condemned me—rejected me.
Despair filled her.
