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My hands clench into fists. A lump forms in my throat because I can already see where this is going.
“He was away for a long time. I was really worried about him. Then he came back. He looked even worse than when he’d left.”
Because he’d just killed my mother. And my sister.
Tears brim in my eyes.
“He didn’t tell me what happened until a week later,” Isabelle goes on. “He thought of going to the cops. He wanted to. But he had an inoperable tumor and he didn’t know how long he had left to live.”
“So he kept quiet,” I say softly. A tear trickles down my cheek. “And so did you.”
“Yes. I know he committed a crime, but he was already being punished for it. I couldn’t stand to have him die in jail for something he didn’t mean…”
“It doesn’t matter if he didn’t mean it!” I lift my gaze to glare at Isabelle. “My mother and my sister died.”
Isabelle looks away. “I know. I know what he did was wrong. And he knew it. He felt bad for it until…” She chokes. “Until the day he died.”
She pulls out a sheet of tissue from the pack on the table to dry her eyes and blow her nose. I just dry my tears with the back of my hand.
“And I know I made a mistake by not saying anything. After Mark died, I felt a pain unlike any I’d known. Even the pain of not having children doesn’t compare to it.”
What? Does she want me to feel sorry for her?
“And only then did I understand how painful it must have been for you. I at least had some peace because I knew Mark was going to die and I had prepared myself for it. He died knowing it was his time, knowing he was no longer going to suffer. But I know the passing of your loved ones must have been harder for you.”
“It was,” I admit. “Because it wasn’t their time. Because they had many years left in them, many things left to do. Because they had no idea they were going to die and we couldn’t understand why they had to go.”
Isabelle sniffs and blows her nose again. “That’s why I’m here. To give you some peace.”
“By telling us that the man who killed my mother and sister is already dead?” I ask in a trembling voice.
More tears streak down my cheeks.
Isabelle draws a breath. “My lawyer said I could still be prosecuted for obstruction of justice. That’s why he didn’t want me to come. But I’m here. I don’t mind if I go to jail.”
“Your husband should have gone to jail,” I say through gritted teeth.
“Like I said, he was…”
“I don’t care if he was dying!” I stand up and beat my fist on the table. “He should have died miserable and alone in jail!”
“Jenna.” My father places a hand on my arm.
Still, my shoulders rise and fall. My chest hurts.
“I’m done here.”
I push my chair away and walk to the door. Officer Miles opens it. My father follows me out and Officer Miles closes the door. Inside, Isabelle breaks into a sob.
Why is she the one sobbing? Does she feel her tears will earn her forgiveness? Does she think she has a right to play victim just because her husband died of cancer?
Maybe it’s unfair, but it’s not my fault. On the other hand, it is his fault my mother and sister are dead and that Shanna nearly died, his fault that I now have to take care of her. And he never spent a day behind prison bars for it. Now, that’s unfair.
“She’ll be charged with obstruction of justice?” I ask Officer Miles.
“Yes,” he answers. “But she’ll probably just get off with a fine.”
So my mother’s and sister’s lives are just worth a few hundred dollars?
“She said she wanted to give you some money that her husband left her,” Officer Miles continues. “If you had let her finish, she could have told you that.”
“I don’t want her money,” I say.
I don’t want anything from her. I don’t ever want to see her again.
“Just keep her away from us.” I grab my father’s arm. “Come on, Dad. Let’s go home. Shanna’s waiting.”
He says nothing and I get the feeling he won’t say anything for a while to come, just like the days after Mom and Sarah died.
Why do we have to relive this nightmare all over again?
~
When we get back home, I get out of the car right away. I want to go straight to a bathroom, lock myself up and let out all the tears of frustration that are stabbing my chest like a sea of thorns. I want to scream at the tiles. I want to throw something at the mirror.
Emily blocks me off on the way to the living room, though.
