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“Is it true that you escaped the Witness Protection Program to join an extremist jihadist group?”
“What’s your comment on your father’s accusations?”
“Will you stick to your initial statement or are you going to change it?”
“Were you diagnosed with an antisocial disorder when you were young?”
Their words muffle into each other, and it takes everything in me to stay in the present. The flashing of cameras keep throwing me back to eleven years ago.
“Murderer! Murderer!” A group of people protest at the side of the road. They’re holding pictures of the women who lost their lives because of Dad.
I recognise their faces, even though it’s been a long time ago. The families. The people left behind.
Sarah stands with them, carrying the toddler I saw her with at the charity event. She’s glaring at me and screaming with the others. “Murderer! We want justice!”
One of them throws rotten tomatoes at me and I close my eyes, letting them hit my face. I retrieve a napkin from my bag and try to wipe it away, but they hit me with another one.
Tears sting my eyes, but I refuse to let them out and I force myself to remain completely still.
I force myself into a numb state. That’s the only way to get through such scenes.
On the third tomato, a few buff men dressed in black surround me and Alan. We’re in such a small circle that their heights and developed physiques block the press and the victims’ families.
They block everything.
I stare with a stunned expression as Jonathan strides to my side with that innate confidence of his. Relief as I’ve never felt before engulfs me as he wraps an arm around my waist and pulls me into the crook of his body. I inhale his woodsy scent, using him as an anchor to dissociate from the hell surrounding us.
Jonathan faces the press and says in a loud voice that everyone can hear, “This is my first and final warning. If anyone harasses my fiancée again, I’ll sue and destroy them in court.”
He then leads me towards an awaiting car. My legs barely carry me and he has to half-lift me. Only one word stays stuck in my head.
I’m not becoming deaf, right? Because I think Jonathan just called me his fiancée in front of the entire world.
24
Aurora
My fiancée.
My fiancée…
My. Fiancée.
Maybe if I say those words once more in my head, they’ll somehow make sense. But will they really?
I can’t stop staring at Jonathan as he uses the wet napkins Moses passes him to wipe my face and my clothes.
His jaw is set and he seems angry. It’s not even directed towards me, but I somehow feel it in my bones.
“Aurora!”
“W-what?” Was he talking?
“I asked you if you’re okay.” He’s studying me intently, as if that will manage to snap me out of my daze.
It doesn’t.
Since there’s no way I’ll be able to speak, I nod.
