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“Angelique found them. She wanted to surprise Isabelle with a drawing she’d made. She was hiding the drawings in Isabelle’s room. I didn’t realize or I wouldn’t have allowed her in there, of course. But they were in her violin case. Hidden in a pocket.”
I feel the ground beneath my feet shake or maybe that’s my knees wobbling as a wave of cold makes me shudder and sweat at once.
I know what she found.
And I can guess what they are thinking.
When Jericho drags his gaze from the packets in his hand to me, I feel myself back up a step. My mouth falls open. I want to explain. To tell him I never intended to use them. Tell him I’d forgotten about them. But no sound comes. Just my mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.
“Go.” His voice is low and dark. It’s how he sounds when he’s the angriest.
“I…” I start but nothing else comes.
“I said go.” The command is for Leontine but he’s looking at me.
“Should I have Angelique wait? She’ll want to say goodbye—”
“Make up an excuse. I won’t be letting her near my daughter.”
My hands are clammy as the notebook and pencil drop to the ground. An audible breath comes from me. The sound of dread.
“Jericho,” Leontine starts. “Perhaps—”
“Get out!”
She glances once at me then hurries out. Leaving me alone with him. My husband. My devil.
“I wasn’t… I forgot.” I shake my head, push a trembling hand into my hair. I swallow hard to gain some control over my vocal cords. “Jericho—”
He’s on me in an instant, hand around my throat, pushing me backward, bending me at a painful angle over the altar. I’d scream if I could, but I can’t inhale any air. I grip his forearm but he’s too strong and he’s too angry.
“You fucking liar!” He brings his fist with the pills in front of my face, crushing them, the packaging bending, pills popping out of their pockets. “You fucking liar!”
I slap at his face, scratching it. He eases his grip on my throat enough that I gulp down air. He captures my wrist to stop my attack and leans over me, face so close to mine I feel his breath. Feel the rage in his eyes, the abyss behind them.
“You would have killed my baby?”
“No,” I croak, gasping for breath. “No!” If he’d just let me explain. If he’d let me tell him what happened. I forgot about them. It’s true. I forgot they were even there.
“Have you taken any?”
“I can’t—”
“Have you taken any!” he roars.
I try to shake my head, but I can’t. I can’t speak to answer him either. I think this is it. I think he’s going to kill me. Does he realize it? Does he realize how strong he is? How hard he’s squeezing?
But just as my vision begins to fade, he’s off me, his attention diverted. I drop to my knees and gasp for breath, clutching my throat as I try to breathe. Try to speak. To tell him.
“You’ll kill her!”
I look up to see why he released me. To see who saved my life. Ezekiel. The brothers caught up in a whirl of fists and fury while I watch, helpless, powerless.
“She tried to kill my baby!” Jericho roars.
“No!” I scream. Or try to scream but my throat is too raw and it comes out a whisper. This is my baby too. Our baby. I wouldn’t. I just forgot them. Forgot all about those pills.
In an instant Jericho is standing over me again and I scramble backward on my butt. He crouches down, fists a handful of hair, and tugs my head back.
“Where did you get them?”
“Jericho!” Zeke tries to dislodge him, but Jericho holds tight.
“Where?”
“You’re going to hurt her you fucking idiot!” He yells but Jericho only has eyes for me. Only has rage for me. “The baby, Jericho. The baby. Think.”
That makes him stop. Makes his hand loosen just a little. I’m sobbing. Terrified and sobbing.
“I wouldn’t,” I start but can’t get enough air to get the words out. “I—” A sob has me hiccuping.
“Let her go, Jericho. Let her go and get yourself under control.”
“I didn’t… I wouldn’t hurt…”
He lets me go, straightens to stand. They both look down at me, Ezekiel with concern, Jericho with hate.
“You have to believe me,” I try. “I didn’t take them.”
“Up!” Jericho commands.
“I swear.”
“Up!” he roars, gripping my hair and dragging me to my feet. I scream this time. I find enough breath and voice to scream as he drags me from the chapel, through the woods and into the house. Everything is a blur as I try to keep up, as I try to beg him to stop. To listen to me. To hear me out. But he won’t hear. He can’t.
When he unlocks that steel door, I think he’s going to throw me down the stairs. Instead, he grips my arm and catches me as I stumble once, twice, dragging me down the hall away from the suicide room. To the one where I spent my first night in this house. He pushes me onto the bed with its creaking springs and steps away, rage barely controlled as his hands clench and unclench. I know if I wasn’t pregnant, he’d kill me. I know it. I back into the farthest corner I can and grip the rungs of the headboard, sobbing.
