Page 65 of Redeem

“Yes,” he said.

He had studied me, seeming to consider. “You seem different.”

“I am,” I replied.

“Any reason why?” he asked.

“Not one I’m interested in going into,” I said.

It probably wasn’t the best idea to deny him information, but I felt protective of Dana, didn’t want to share anything about her, about us, with anyone. Not even in this situation.

“I can probably guess.” He stopped, looked at me curiously. “I owe you a lot.”

I frowned, surprised by his words.

“Me?”

“Yes.”

He didn’t expand on that point, and as I watched him, I realized he probably wouldn’t but he had said enough. He had set me on a new path, and it seemed I had done the same for him.

Still, though we seemed to be sharing a moment of understanding, his expression changed instantly, became one of fierceness, near foreboding.

“You’re out. Completely,” he said.

“I have no interest in this life,” I said.

Speaking the words out loud wasn’t difficult, something that would have shocked me just hours ago. In the silence after I’d said them, the truth of them hit me again. That truth was tinged with some regret because in speaking those words, I’d left behind who I’d been, in some ways left behind the memory of my family, the times that had once been good. But there was no other way and no purpose in denying what now seemed so plain.

“Good. Make sure it stays that way. I found you once. I would hate to have to do so again,” he said.

I looked Ioan in his eyes, spoke the last of my new truths. “You won’t. The Ciprian Dragos you knew is dead.”

Twenty-Six

Dana

Four weeks.

In those four weeks I had fallen apart, put myself back together, only to fall apart all over again more times than I could count.

I was exhausted from the weight of the emotions that had rolled through me, and knew that I was no closer to sorting them all out.

There were so many, but none worse than the grief.

That was the worst part for me.

Over those weeks, I had clung to anger, tried to nurture it until it became hate, prayed that between those two emotions I’d be able to find my way out.

But I hadn’t.

My anger had become hate, all of it directed at myself. This was my fault. I knew better than to let someone in, but I’d thrown open the doors for him, dove into something I knew was impossible with almost no hesitation.

And I’d been gutted. Broken in ways I never had been before. It disgusted me to admit it, but the truth was undeniable. Nothing, not the death of my husband, the years of turmoil and loneliness after, nothing made me hurt more than I hurt now.

Because I didn’t hurt because of what he’d done, because of the years I’d suffered. I hurt because of what I’d lost, grieved for what would now never be.

Hated myself for hoping there was some other alternative. But I held onto the small pieces of hope, treasured them and nurtured them even though common sense told me I shouldn’t, told me that what he’d done was unforgivable, that I should hate him forever.

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