Chương 8
Edgar continued.
“Heather started calling me.”
Nora looked at him.
“How often?”
He hesitated.
“More than she should have.”
The answer was careful.
Too careful.
“How often, Edgar?”
“Several times a week.”
Nora looked away.
The kitchen suddenly felt too bright.
The overhead light reflected off the countertops.
Every clean surface seemed insulting.
Her home had always been organized.
Controlled.
She had liked things that way.
Now she wondered if control had only made it easier for everyone to hide.
“Did you love her?”
Edgar did not answer.
That was enough.
Nora closed her eyes briefly.
She wanted to hate him.
It would have been easier.
Hatred was simple.
But grief was not.
Grief required accepting that something valuable had existed before it was damaged.
“I cared about her,” Edgar said.
Nora opened her eyes.
“That’s not what I asked.”
Edgar looked toward the floor.
“I don’t know.”
The honesty was painful.
“I don’t know what I felt anymore.”
Kristina suddenly stood.
“You knew exactly what you felt.”
Edgar looked at her.
“You were scared.”
“No.”
“You were scared of losing your life.”
Kristina’s voice became sharper.
“You were scared of admitting you wanted something you shouldn’t have wanted.”
Edgar looked away.
Nora watched the exchange.
There was anger there.
But underneath it was something else.
A shared grief.
Both of them had lost Heather.
They had just lost her in different ways.
“What happened the night she died?” Nora asked.
The question changed the room.
Kristina sat back down.
Edgar went still.
Outside, a car passed slowly on the street.
The headlights moved across the wall and disappeared.
For a few seconds, nobody spoke.
Then Edgar said, “She called me.”
Nora waited.
“She was upset.”
“About what?”
“About everything.”
He swallowed.
“She said she was leaving.”
“Leaving where?”
“I don’t know.”
Nora stared.
“You don’t know?”
“No.”
The answer sounded impossible.
“You were the person she called.”
“I know.”
“Then how do you not know?”
Edgar rubbed his forehead.
“Because I didn’t go.”
Silence.
Nora felt the meaning of those words before she understood them completely.
“You didn’t go.”
Edgar shook his head.
“I told myself I couldn’t.”
“Why?”
“Because I was married.”
The anger that moved through Nora was immediate.
Not loud.
Not explosive.
Just heavy.
“You chose your marriage.”
Edgar looked at her.
“I thought I was choosing the responsible thing.”
“And what happened?”
He looked down.
“She died the next morning.”
Nobody moved.
Kristina covered her mouth.
Even after all these years, the sentence still had power.
Nora looked at her.
The pain on Kristina’s face was not an act.
It was old.
Deep.
A wound that had never closed.
“But why did you blame Edgar?” Nora asked.
Kristina lowered her hand.
“Because Heather’s last message was to him.”
Edgar looked up.
“What?”
Kristina’s eyes narrowed.
“She sent you a message before she died.”
Edgar went pale.
“I never saw it.”
Nora looked between them.
“You never saw it?”
Edgar shook his head slowly.
“No.”
Kristina laughed once.
A small, broken sound.
“You deleted it.”
The accusation landed.
Edgar stared at her.
“I did not.”
“You did.”
“No.”
Kristina reached into her purse.
Everyone noticed.
The police officer across the room looked over immediately.
Kristina stopped.
“Sorry.”
She slowly removed a small plastic sleeve.
Inside was a printed screenshot.
She placed it on the table.
Nora stepped closer.
The message was from Heather’s phone number.
The date was visible.
Twenty years earlier.
The words were short.
Edgar, please answer.
I need you to tell me the truth.
I can’t keep pretending this is okay.
Nora looked at Edgar.
“That’s it?”
Kristina’s face tightened.
“That was the last message.”
Edgar stared at the paper.
“I never received it.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“I’m telling you what happened.”
“Then why was your phone number on it?”
The question stopped him.
Nora looked carefully at the screenshot.
Something felt wrong.
Not with the words.
With the situation.
A memory surfaced.
Edgar’s old habit.
The one she had ignored.
He changed phones often.
He deleted messages constantly.
He hated having old conversations saved.
She used to tease him about it.
“You erase everything like you’re hiding from your own history.”
He had laughed.
Maybe too quickly.
At the time, she thought it was just one of his strange habits.
Now it felt different.
The officer approached the table.
“Can I see that?”
Kristina handed it over.
He studied it.
“Do you still have the original device?”
Kristina shook her head.
“No.”
“Then this may require additional verification.”
Kristina looked frustrated.
“Of course.”
The officer remained calm.
“Ma’am, I understand this is important.”
“No.”
Her voice softened.
“That’s the problem.”
She looked toward Nora.
“It has been important for twenty years.”
Nora looked at her.
The sentence stayed with her.
Not because she forgave Kristina.
She did not.
Not even close.
But because she finally understood something.
The snake had not been placed there because Kristina wanted money.
Or revenge.
Or some simple victory.
She had spent twenty years living inside a wound.
And tonight, that wound had turned dangerous.
The officer’s radio crackled.
He stepped away to answer.
Edgar sat down slowly.
Nora looked at him.
“There is something else.”
He did not deny it.
That frightened her.
“What?”
Edgar looked at the floor.
“There was a reason I never told you about Heather.”
Nora waited.
“I was afraid you would see me differently.”
She almost laughed.
The sound caught in her throat.
“Edgar.”
He looked up.
“I already do.”
His face fell.
She hated seeing that.
She hated that some part of her still cared.
But caring did not erase what happened.
It never had.
“Why now?” she asked.
“Why after all these years?”
Edgar looked toward the bedroom.
Toward the room where everything had broken open.
“Because I thought the past was buried.”
Nora followed his eyes.
“And you were wrong.”
“Yes.”
The answer came quietly.
“It was never buried.”
May you like
He looked at her.
“It was waiting.”
