“I know.”
“You broke my heart.”
“I know.”
“You stood there and watched me walk away.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you here?”
He stood up. Slowly. Carefully. He reached into his coat and pulled out a folded envelope. He held it out to me.
“What is this?”
“A letter. From Bethany.”
The name hit me like a physical blow. My sister. The one who had been in my bedroom. The one who had worn my robe. The one who had destroyed my life.
“She wrote it the night before she died,” Adrian said. “She asked me to give it to you if I ever found you. I’ve been carrying it for two years.”
My hands were shaking. I took the envelope. I didn’t open it.
“She’s dead?”
“Two years ago. Overdose. She was trying to call you when she died. She wanted to tell you the truth.”
“What truth?”
Adrian looked at me. His eyes were wet. His voice was barely a whisper.
“That nothing happened. That night. In the bedroom. Nothing happened.”
I stared at him. “What?”
“She was trying to get me to help her. She was in trouble. She had borrowed money from the wrong people. She came to me because she knew I had resources. She took off her clothes because she was desperate. She thought seduction would work. It didn’t. I told her to leave. She put on your robe because she was cold. You walked in at the wrong moment.”
I felt the ground tilt. I put my hand on the railing to steady myself.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“She begged me not to. She said if you found out what she had done, it would destroy your family. She said she would tell you herself. She said she needed time.”
“And you believed her?”
“I was trying to protect you.”
“You should have told me.”
“I know.”
“I would have stayed.”
“I know.”
“I would have helped her.”
“I know.”
