Page 141 of Captive Ruin

Linda hesitates a smidge too long. “Yes, of course.”

“What was she like?”

I’ve asked before, but one advantage of having literally nothing else to do is that I’ve spent quite a lot of time with Linda of late. I’m holding my breath, hoping it’s enough.

Linda sighs, setting down the dish she’s holding. “She was lovely. When she wasn’t ill, she was kind, vibrant, and always ready with a smile.”

It’s more than I’ve ever had out of her. I bite my lip, then carefully drop in my quiet provocation. “He said at the end her death was… a relief.”

“Relief?” Linda repeats softly, like she’s exploring the word. “I don’t know… perhaps that is the best way to look at it. I hadn’t thought of it like that.” A long pause. “Yes… maybe what Juliette did… it’s easier to understand in that light.”

What she did?

I don’t understand. I need to know, even though it’s obvious it’s hurting Linda to talk about it.

Stepping closer, I take her hand in mine, and she looks at me with tears in her eyes. “Juliette meant so much to all of you. How did she die?”

She looks down. “It’s really something you should discuss with Lukas…”

“I’m worried it would hurt him to talk of it,” I say quietly. “Will you tell me? Please?”

Linda winces at my plea. “Juliette… was very ill. One night, she… uh… took a knife, and…” She trails off.

Jesus. She killed herself.

“Cut her wrists,” I finish on a breath.

“No. It was… her throat.”

Fuck.

It takes everything I have to conceal my horror. Who cuts their own throat? What illness could possibly be so bad to make that a preferable option? “What was she ill with?”

But Linda pulls her hand back and turns away from me, leaning on the counter for support. “I’ve said too much.” She makes an effort to lower her shoulders. “And it’s Christmas. We should speak of happier things.”

“Of course, I’m sorry,” I reply quickly. “And… thank you for sharing with me. It makes me feel like I can better support Lukas.”

That earns me a tremulous smile. “You’re a good soul, dear. It’s clear what Lukas sees in you.”

“Thank you,” I say again. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to spend a little time in the sunroom. That was quite the dinner.”

“It was her favorite room too,” Linda says to my back as I walk out.

No doubt she meant that well, but all I can think of is Juliette taking her own life. Did she do it in the sunroom, where I’ve spent so many hours?

Does this house now feel more oppressive, or am I imagining it?

I stumble in the hallway as Linda’s words come back to me, and throw a hand against the wall for support.

She didn’t say one day, or one evening. She said one night.

I realize the truth, and my stomach clenches so hard I feel like I’m about to throw up.

Van Wyk’s last wife killed herself in her bed, which is now my bed.

I’ve been sleeping there for weeks, not knowing.

I press my hand to my own throat before I even realize I’ve done it, imagining what it must’ve been like, and what could possibly have driven her to such an act.