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She doesn’t move.
My fist squeezes around the ring.
We stare at each other for a minute.
My face gives it away. She knows.
Without a word, I rise from the couch, walk into the kitchen, and start the coffee that I’d set hours earlier, preparing for her to wake. Preparing for the conversation we must have.
I am not calm, cool, nor collected. My stomach is on fire.
Gripping the edge of the counter, I lean forward and stare mindlessly out the window as the coffee brews. A dense fog swirls above the forest floor, weaving through the gnarled tree trunks. I watch a crow swoop off a branch, disappearing into the treetops
I feel her before I see her.
My body tenses.
It’s time.
I push away from the window, pull two mugs from the cabinet.
Sylvia says nothing as she meets me at the coffee pot. In her hand is her mother’s journal. She stops next to me, the tension so thick between us you could reach out and grab onto it.
We don’t look at each other.
I fill the mugs, hand her one, keep one for myself, then lean against the counter.
She mirrors this stance, leaning against the counter on the opposite side of the kitchen. She’s set the journal behind her.
The coffee cup in her hand is trembling, just slightly.
I open my palm.
Sylvia stares at her mother’s wedding band.
There is no question anymore. None in my heart and soul.
I know—and she knows I know.
Our eyes meet, hers wide.
“It’s time to talk, Sylvia.”
She continues to stare at me, her mind racing. I realize that, ironically, mine is suddenly completely clear. For the first time in twenty years, I feel like I am exactly where I am meant to be, at the exact moment I am meant to be there.
“Talk,” I repeat.
“What do you want me to say?”
“For starters, I want to know why you killed your mother, and why you framed me for doing it.”
As she stares at me, her entire body begins to shake. Like an earthquake, a slow rumble at first that turns violent. I watch tears gather in her eyes. I watch her face soften with defeat.
I feel a sick sense of victory in that moment.
“I need you to forgive me,” she whispers while piping hot coffee spills over her shaking fingertips.
I don’t rush to her side, because I think that is exactly what she is hoping for with this ridiculous display of emotion. Sylvia Stone is a liar. She is manipulative. She is unstable.
