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No. It isn't. It can't be.
He sank onto the bed as nausea whirled in his stomach. He forced himself to look at the first photo again—this time keeping his eyes averted from the naked man fondling himself, and focusing instead on the rest of the image. He looked at the bed in the picture and knew, without even turning to look at the one on which he sat, that they were the same.
And the second picture… The same man, in the same position, on the same bed… But with a woman bent over him—a woman with long, dark brown hair. The camera had been aimed poorly; he couldn't see her face and could only see a small part of one shoulder, but it was enough. It was obvious what she was doing, but his mind refused to go there.
George Wickham. With Elizabeth. In her bed.
A roaring filled his ears as another wave of nausea overtook him. He bolted off the bed and went outside to the deck, taking in huge gulps of air and trying to steady himself. Once he felt a semblance of control, he went back into the house and into her bedroom. Moving on autopilot, he took the photos and put them back into the drawer, under another sweatshirt, and closed it. He stuffed the Harvard sweatshirt and her sweatpants into the duffel bag with the rest of her things and walked out of the bedroom and then out of the house, shutting off the lights as he went.
He didn't bother parking when he returned to the hospital. He left his car idling at the entrance and when he walked into the waiting room, he saw a nurse in the triage area and approached her.
"Excuse me."
She looked up and smiled. "Can I help you?"
He swallowed thickly, hardly able to speak. "Can you–can you please give this bag to Elizabeth Bennet? She's–she's a patient here, she’s staying overnight. It's just some…it’s some clothes and things she needs."
"Do you want to take them to her yourself?"
"No. Can you–can you just make sure she gets them?"
She nodded. "Elizabeth Bennet. Sure thing. Any message?"
"No. Thank you."
Twenty minutes later, he watched the needle on the speedometer of his SUV waver at eighty as he barreled down the highway. The music blaring from the stereo was so loud, he couldn't hear himself think—which was just as well. He tried to shut off his mind and drive,just drive, to where he needed to be.
Away.
