“I’m done sleeping.”
“I noticed. How’s your shoulder?”
I walk further into the room and try to haul myself onto the kitchen island, but the shooting pain and the sling stop me pretty fast.
Theo takes over, lifting me by the waist. Once we’re eye-level, with my bum resting on the cool marble, he kisses my forehead. “Stop being self-sufficient and stubborn, and start asking for help.”
“I need painkillers, and I think I’ll take a day off.”
“Yeah, and the rest of the week too.” He takes out the prescription pain meds from the drawer. “You’re staying home until you don’t need painkillers.”
“You’re not dressed for work.” She frowns, searching my face. “You don’t have to babysit me, you know?”
“No, I don’t, but I want to.” He hands me a cup of coffee and rests against the cupboards.
The atmosphere shifts instantly as centipedes with icy feet scurry along my spine. The distance between us has me bracing for a conversation I shouldn’t have to have with anyone and one I’ve been unconsciously preparing for since the day we met.
My heart beats faster, and stomach ties into knots—I hate that. I never want to feel insecure and uncertain around Theo, but the dread is unmistakable. My mind is already gearing up to deal with the worst outcome. The dam that holds my tears threatens to burst when I curl my fingers around the warm cup.
“Did you?” he asks slowly, voice steady, face determined. “Did you kill your husband?”
I swallow the lump in my throat to make room for words. I’ve never told anyone about that night. Not even my lawyer. He was appointed by the court and had no choice in the matter. If he could saynoto representing me, he’d scream it from the rooftops.
“Vasilis was a God in Thessaloniki long before his political career.” I start as all stories should—right at the beginning. “Since his twenties, he fought to secure funding for orphanages. He was pictured in newspapers, taking heaps of toys and sweets to the kids, smiling and hugging the little ones to his chest.”
I remember my fascination with the man. Surely this isn’t how Theo imagined the conversation, but if I’m to paint the picture and explain the marriage and the murder charges, I have to do it on my terms. “When he decided to pursue a political career, he won the election for mayor with eighty-nine percent of the votes. I volunteered as part of his election team.”
“Thalia,” Theo urges, gritting his teeth and balling his hands into tight fists. “Please, just... answer the question. Did you kill him?”
I’ve rehearsed this conversation in my head a thousand times already, andthisis the best scenario I came up with. “We only dated for a few weeks before he proposed,” I continue. “Two weeks later, we were married. He loved me and wanted to have kids... as many as I’d agree to. I love kids, Theo. I’ve wanted to be a mom since I turned eighteen.” I take a sip of coffee, toying with the bracelet on my wrist, too ashamed to look him in the eye. “I was fascinated by his love. To this day, it feels like I was under a powerful spell. Blind to the obvious.” I take in a deep breath.
“We moved in together, and he immediately started planning his presidential campaign, locking himself up in his office until late in the evenings. It was the only room in the house I wasn’t allowed to set foot in, but he never locked the door. It stood wide open day and night. It was his space, but that morning...” I swallow hard, my voice breaking, and a lonely tear breaks through the dam.
This is harder than I could’ve imagined. I’ve recalled that day hundreds of times, but it’s different to think it, than to talk about it. Different than actually sharing the secret, risking my life. I might be far away from Greece, but there’s no place I can hide if he decides to find me.
I inhale a deep, steadying breath wiping my tears away, my hands trembling when I wrap them around the cup again. “I was playing with our puppy, tossing a ball. He ran into his office, and I chased after him.”
Each word is harder to get out, and I’m pausing more often, doing my best not to break down when images I never want to recall flash before my eyes.
I chance a glance at Theo. I’m not sure what I see in his eyes, but judging by how he’s drumming his fingers on the underside of the counter, his patience is wearing thin. I’m sure he wants me to answer the question, but at the same time, he’s holding onto the counter as if trying to stop himself from coming closer and taking me into his arms.
“I didn’t plan it too well,” I whisper through my tears, my vision blurry. “I knew a dealer from my school years. When Vasilis came home that evening, I slipped a roofie in his glass, then drew him a bath while he could still walk.”
Theo shifts uncomfortably, the color draining from his face. On some level, he knew the answer to his question before he asked. He had to. He told me last night that Nico found articles about Vasilis’s death, but didn’t get into details and kept saying we’ll talk in the morning. I bet he anticipated the truth. Or considered it, at least.
Now, he opens his mouth to speak, but I’m not done with the story. If he interrupts me, if I hear contempt in his voice, I won’t get another word out, and he has to know exactly what happened and why.
“It’s not as easy as you’d think... slicing someone’s wrists,” I whisper, choking on my tears, but I don’t wipe them away. I let them stain my cheeks and nose, my hands firmly clasped around the cup of coffee. “It takes more strength than you’d anticipate. Especially when using a small kitchen knife.”
I’m focused on my fingers, pulling on a cuticle, but I catch movement with the corner of my eye when Theo shifts from one foot to another, silent and most likely horrified. I can’t imagine what’s going through his head. Is he worried? Scared that I’m unstable and could hurt him too? Does he want to know why, or is he wondering how to get rid of me fast?
“The police performed an autopsy. They checked Vasilis’ toxicology results and knew he was roofied. Evidence was there... my one-way ticket to jail. Everyone turned away from me. Friends, family, the whole town. The whole country. I became a villain. The worst kind because I killed the man everyone loved. The hero.”
My voice grows steadier again. I learned to block the pain of what society did to me. The only pain that remains buried deep inside isn’t for me. It’s forthem. For those who couldn’t protect themselves.
“People are cruel. I was spat at, threatened with death, and called every name you could think of. I received hundreds of vile letters while I remained in custody, awaiting trial. Not one person stood by me, but I refused to plead guilty. I didn’t feel guilty, Theo. I still don’t.”
Even I know it sounds crazy. How can I not hate myself for taking someone’s life? I’ve wondered that for almost two years, nitpicking my behavior and personality for signs of mental instability. What if I’m a psychopath?