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“I’m not anxious.”
He studied me as if he didn’t believe me.
“I-I’ve got to go.” Marching to the door, I wrenched it open and practically ran to my car.
Tonight was four years since Aslan was shot.
I had a phone call to make.
* * * * *
“Çok tutarlisin, kizim.” (You are consistent, daughter).
I sat on the sand, my eyes locked on the stars above, my ears full of the softly snoozing waves.
“Without fail at seven p.m., you call me,” Cem added.
“It’s two in the morning here. The same time you murdered him.”
“Ah, was that the time?” He chuckled. “All I remember was I was hungry and needed to go home to eat.”
“You repulse me.”
“You said that last year. No new insults to share?”
“Give me your address. I want to come visit.”
“Why? So you can rifle through my house and try to find him?”
“So I can prove that he’s still alive.”
He sighed heavily. “This has got to stop, kizim. I’m afraid for you. Your mind is broken as well as your heart.”
“My mind is fine.”
“But your heart is not.” He clucked his tongue. “I know about the specialist appointment you had today. Are you going to leave Ayla an orphan? How about I take her? She could be my heir. I rather like the thought of a girl taking over my empire. It would go against many traditions and delight me no end.”
Molten fury poured through me. “You will never get within ten metres of my daughter.”
“We’ll see.”
I hated that cryptic reply.
I stewed with one of my own.
Before I had a suitable slur or slander, he murmured, “Allow me to put you out of your misery, Nerida. Aslan Avci is dead. You have my absolute word. He is dead. I made damn sure of that.”
Snow settled over my heart. Soft and silent, gentle and hushed. I didn’t know why, but those words did something to me. They nudged my foggy intuition. They itched and nibbled at something unexplainable.
The conversation paused for a long time.
Almost long enough to hang up.
But then a question spilled free, straight from my soul. “And what of Aslan Kara? Is he dead too?”
“Beni bir kez daha sasirttin.” (Once again, you’ve surprised me). His voice deepened with a strange hitch of...pride? “You continue to reveal why my son fell for you. You were worthy of him, I see that now.”
“You’re saying he’s alive?”
“I’m saying we’re both in love with a ghost.” He sucked in a breath. “If you need evidence, perhaps I’ll send you his bones for your birthday.”
My stomach sloshed with nausea, but I hyper-focused on his last sentence. “I thought you said he was ash.”
The line crackled.
My skin prickled.
Finally, the softest chuckle. “I did, didn’t I?”
He cut off the call.
He left me alone with the stars, the sand, and a million useless shells that couldn’t bring Aslan home to me.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
*
Nerida
*
(Love in Galician: Amor)
“BY THE TIME FIVE YEARS ROLLED AROUND, I’d spun my ring a million times, stroked my tattoo a thousand times, and begged the moon and sea to return what was rightfully mine.”
“God, I don’t even know how you coped,” Margot whispered. “My heart is bruised just listening to your story, let alone living it.”
I licked at a salty droplet as it rolled down my cheek. My head throbbed, and my eyes stung with sadness. I’d wanted to stop reciting my tale, but I couldn’t. Just a little more and then I could say the magical words The End, thank these lovely reporters for listening, then usher them out of my house so I could go and spend time with my ghost.
Five decades had passed since that horrific time of anguish, yet the blades of grief still cut far too sharply. I’d learned the lesson of loss far too well, and it’d scarred me forever. It’d cut me so often, so deeply, its lacerations riddled my soul, calcified my arteries, and patched up the disfigured parts of me. I had somehow survived in a world looking whole, all while being eternally wounded.
I would never wish that level of agony or helplessness on anyone.
I never wanted to feel such misery again.
Yet I’d endured it while confessing my tragedy. I’d done it so people could one day read about a scientist who followed her spirit. About a marine biologist without a degree. About a successful businesswoman who was nothing more than a heartbroken wife.
“Did you want to stop, Nerida?” Dylan asked gently. “It’s one o’ clock in the morning. Surely you’d like to—”
“If you’re okay to stay, I’m okay to keep talking.”
“Of course.” He frowned. “But I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t suggest perhaps a break? Some tea? Some painkillers for your headache?”
I smiled. “Your kind concern is appreciated, but I’m alright.” Sitting straighter, I glanced at Margot who flipped to a new page in her notepad.
