Part 3
Still, they hit him harder than anything Vivian had said.
Above them, the soft fabric of Vivian’s gown shifted as she moved closer to the railing.
“You have to call someone,” Vivian said.
“There’s no one here.”
“Then call an ambulance.”
Julian looked toward the double doors. His phone was in his pocket. He knew it was there. He knew what he was supposed to do.
But he did not move.
For a terrible instant, the thought of taking one hand from Elena felt impossible.
She sensed it.
“Julian,” she whispered.
“I’m here.”
“Phone.”
He nodded, though his body resisted. He reached into his pocket with one hand, pulling out the black rectangle. The screen glowed bright in the low light.
No service.
He stared at it.
The mansion had always had bad reception in the center of the foyer. Thick walls, old wiring, too much stone. Elena had complained about it the first week they started coming here regularly. Julian had promised he would have the system upgraded.
He had not.
“Of course,” he said under his breath.
Vivian heard him.
“There’s a landline by the door.”
Julian looked at the far end of the foyer.
The distance was perhaps thirty feet.
It might as well have been another country.
“You go,” he said.
Vivian did not move.
His gaze lifted to her.
She stared back at him.
For a moment neither spoke.
“You want me to leave her?” she asked.
“I want you to call for help.”
“I’m not leaving this landing.”
“Why?”
Her face hardened.
“You think I’m going to run?”
The question entered the room and changed its temperature.
Elena’s fingers tightened in Julian’s shirt again.
Julian felt it.
Vivian saw it.
The three of them remained locked in the same arrangement: Elena on the floor, Julian holding her, Vivian above them in silver beneath the chandelier.
It occurred to Julian with startling clarity that a room could remember people in positions. That whatever happened next, he would always remember Vivian standing there. He would remember the railing behind her. He would remember the way her bare hand curved around the white stone.
“No,” he said finally. “I think you should call.”
Vivian stared at him for another second, then turned away from the railing.
The movement should have relieved him.
Instead, something in his chest tightened.
He did not want her out of sight.
“Elena,” he said.
Her breathing was uneven. “I know.”
“What?”
“She’s gone.”
He looked up.
Vivian had disappeared from the upper floor.
Julian’s eyes tracked the line of the staircase, the polished balusters, the shadowed hall beyond the landing. No door had opened. No footsteps sounded. The house seemed to absorb movement before it could become proof of anything.
He looked back down at Elena.
“You’re okay,” he said again.
This time she did not answer.
He leaned closer.
“Elena?”
Her eyes were open, but she was staring at the chandelier.
“It was my fault,” she said.
The words hollowed him out.
“No.”
“You don’t know.”
“I don’t care.”
“You should.”
He shook his head. “No. I should know if someone hurt you.”
A pause.
Then, very softly, “I hurt her.”
Julian looked toward the upper staircase again.
“What does that mean?”
Elena swallowed. Her throat worked painfully.
“She was crying.”
Vivian did not cry in front of people.
Julian knew that as surely as he knew the pattern of the floor beneath them. Vivian had cried at their mother’s funeral, but only after everyone had left. He had found her in the library with the lights off, holding one of their mother’s scarves. When he stepped inside, she had wiped her face and asked why he was standing there.
That was all.
“She was crying?” he repeated.
Elena’s eyes closed.
“I didn’t mean to push her.”
His breath stopped.
The word did not fit. It seemed to come apart in the air.
“What?”
“I pushed her away from me.” Elena’s voice shook. “Not over. Just—she grabbed my arm.”
Julian felt the marble beneath his knees tilt.
Above them, somewhere beyond the upper railing, a door clicked softly.
He looked toward the sound.
Elena’s grip on him tightened with sudden panic.
“Don’t leave.”
“I’m not leaving.”
“Promise.”
“I promise.”
The word came out too quickly.
He knew it before he said it. He knew promises made in fear had a way of becoming traps. But Elena’s face was inches from his, pale and terrified, and the only thing that mattered was that she believed him.
“I’m right here,” he said.
Her body relaxed by a fraction.
May you like
Julian bent over her, protecting her from nothing he could see.
For years, Elena had accused him of treating fear like an inconvenience. When she worried about something, he tried to solve it before she could finish explaining why it hurt. He booked appointments. He researched options. He offered money, advice, schedules, rides, plans.
