“But that doesn’t excuse what you’ve done. You came here looking for her. Why?” I’m not giving him any more time to process her death than I’ve been given. I want him to feel it. I don’t want to be alone with this raw, vulnerable knowledge.
“I came looking for her,” he confesses in a slow voice. He pauses to process his thoughts and I want to scream at him to continue.
I need answers, I need them now.
“I found you instead,” he says at last.
“And you knew.” My voice cracks on the question, tears leaking through the thin veneer of self-control I’ve been clinging to since I got here. “The whole time. You came into my home. You went to bed with me. You called me her name.”
Now that I’m facing this, my stomach twists, churning the information violently until I feel ill.
“You called yourself her name.” There’s no admonishment as he speaks. No condemnation. Only sadness. He didn’t buy my lies. He saw through them.
I dig the folded paper out of my purse and then throw the bag inside the entryway. Shoving it against his chest, I start to sob. “Here are the answers you’ve been looking for.”
His eyes stay on mine as he opens the paper. He has to squint to read it under the dim porch light. He skims it over, and I know what he’s reading.
My name.
No, her name.
Time and manner of death.
Date.
“A year,” he says as the information settles over him.
“Faith Kane has been dead a year and the proof of it was tucked away in my grandmother’s sock drawer.”
“I didn’t know.” Jude folds it back up and hands it to me. His tongue flickers over his lips.
I hate him, because those lips will never touch mine again. I hate him, because he’s never been mine. I hate him, because I thought I’d finally found something true. But he’s only an illusion. I’ve always suspected he was too good to be true. I can’t imagine what he actually thinks of me.
“I wasn’t certain what to think when I met you.” His mouth steals my thoughts.
I recall how his eyes flashed at that first meeting. Kind Jude. Savior Jude. Yet, he’d been slow to warm to me. Then he’d been curious. I’d misinterpreted every moment we’d shared. He never wanted me. He’s been analyzing me and God knows what else. “I thought you were apprehensive. I thought maybe you realized it was a bad idea to get involved with someone you met at an NA meeting. We built a whole relationship on a lie.”
“No.” His voice is firm as he stops me. Jude grabs my shoulder and I can tell that he wants to shake me but instead he grips my upper arm protectively as if he’s keeping me safe from myself. “Our relationship started as a lie, but it is not a lie. I love you. Everything else is unimportant.”
“How can you say that?” I thunder. I’ve torn myself up wondering if he’d ever say those words. Now it’s too late. Without thinking I shove him. “Why are you here? Why are you here?”
I keep shoving him. He takes it, stumbling back step by step. He doesn’t try to stop me. When his back hits the front door, he grabs my wrists and pins them to his chest.
“She sent me a postcard. It didn’t say anything, but Port Townsend.”
“How did you know it was from her?” I ask in a low voice.
“She signed it. I didn’t know what it meant.”
“But you came here. You bought a house here.” It meant something. He can’t deny that.
“I didn’t do that because of her,” he clarifies. “I figured she must be in trouble, so yes, I came looking for her. I found you instead.”
But I can’t see past what’s brought us together. “She must have meant a lot to you.”
“I thought she did,” he admits. “But now I think she was just leading me to you.”
I struggle against his grasp, because I can’t think clearly with Jude touching me and I need to keep my head right now. I finally give up when he doesn’t let go and glare at him. “You came for her. You settled for me. I’ve been my sister’s shadow most of my life, I won’t be her replacement anymore.”
“I tried to stay away from you. I didn’t understand why Faith brought me here, but I couldn’t not come. I owed her that much.” Jude releases his hold on my arm, and I rub my wrists. He reaches out to do it for me, but I move away.
“Why?” But I’m not asking him, I’m asking myself. Why do I owe so much to Faith? What mysterious influence has she had over me—over him, over all of us—for all these years? Why can’t we break free?
“I met Faith at a party.”
I freeze as he begins to tell their story.
“I didn’t so much meet her, I found her in my guest room in a pool of her own vomit,” he says.
“Most people would call the police,” I say coldly.
“I’m not most men.”