The Confrontation
1225 Words
Ethel POV
A thousand thoughts raced through my mind. My heart leaped and skipped all at once. I watched his eyes, still wide from thirty minutes ago. I could tell he was still distraught from the stunt I pulled earlier.
To be fair, I had no choice; it was either that or him finding out what I did.
“I need to go.” I blurted out, my eyes still fixed on my phone's screen.
“I won't let you go alone.” He was already moving, grabbing a shirt from his closet. “Give me two minutes.”
“You don't have to do this…”
He turned to face me, and the intensity in his eyes stopped my words. “Yes, I do.”
I could probably hear a pin drop as we drove through the streets.
I sat in the passenger seat, my hands clasped tightly in my lap as I watched streetlights blur past. It was still raining, though not as heavily as before. I was still in my dinner outfit; I just added a coat to the mix.
Lyke's hand rested on the gear shift between us, close enough to touch. I found myself hyper aware of the six inches of space that felt like a chasm.
"Are you scared?" he asked quietly.
I considered lying, but what was the point? "Yes."
"What are you so scared of?"
" I don't know,” I cried. " It's not every day you get accused of poisoning your husband.” I turned to look at him. "I am scared of him telling the police I did it."
"He won't."
"How do you know?"
His jaw tightened.
"Because Morris likes to play mind games. If he's awake and asking for you, he wants something, and he won't waste it on a simple accusation."
"You sound like you know him well."
His jaw flexed as he stopped talking.
I wanted to ask more, but we were pulling into the hospital parking lot.
As we walked toward the entrance, Lyke's hand found the small of my back. I told myself it was for a show, in case anyone was watching.
But the hospital lobby was empty except for a bored security guard.
Yet his hand stayed.
Detective Fanny was waiting outside Morris's room.
Of course, she was.
"Mrs. Ashford," she said, her tone neutral but her eyes sharp. " Congratulations on your marriage. Quite a whirlwind romance. ”
"Thank you," I replied evenly.
"Mr. Calloway has been asking for you for the past hour. We've been trying to reach you."
"We were asleep," Lyke said. "It's two in the morning."
Fanny's gaze flicked between us. "How convenient. The husband wakes up, and the new husband is right there to control the narrative."
"My client has every right to legal counsel during any interaction," Lyke replied coldly.
"This isn't an interrogation. It's a dying man asking for his wife."
"His ex-wife," he corrected. "She's my wife now."
Something flickered across her face—annoyance, maybe, or satisfaction at catching us where she wanted.
I stepped forward. "Can I see him or not?"
She gestured to the door. "He's weak. The doctor says you have maybe ten minutes before they sedate him again, so try not to excite him."
I reached for the door handle, but my hand was shaking.
Then I felt his hand close over mine.
"I'm coming with you," he said quietly.
"But Detective Fanny said—"
"I don't care what she said." His blue eyes locked on mine. "I won't let you face him alone."
I almost choked on a sob. When was the last time someone said something like that to me? I couldn't remember when anyone had cared enough to mean it.
"Okay," I whispered as we entered together.
The room smelled of antiseptic and something darker as machines beeped in sync, tracking a life that was slowly slipping away.
Morris lay on the bed, connected to tubes and wires and monitors. He looked terrible—gaunt, pale, and hollowed out—but his eyes were open, and they watched us enter.
His gaze immediately fell on our joined hands.
"So it's true," Morris said, his voice barely above a whisper but edged with something sharp. "You married him."
A bitter, wheezing sound that turned into a cough escaped his throat, and blood flecked his lips.
"I should have known." Morris's eyes were fixed on Lyke. "You always wanted what was mine."
Lyke's hand tightened on mine. " This isn't about you. ”
"Isn't it?" Morris's lips curled, and it made him look horrible. "Everything's about me. Even when it pretends not to be."
I forced myself to step closer to the bed, though every instinct said otherwise. "You asked for me. Why?"
His gaze shifted to me, and for a moment, something almost like sadness flickered across his face.
"You look happy," he said. "Happier than I ever made you. It's strange, isn't it? How you had finally escaped."
"I didn't—" I started.
"Don't…" He raised one weak hand. "Don't lie to me; we both know what this marriage is." His eyes shifted back to Lyke. "Tell me, brother. Did you tell her about Jennifer?"
The word hung in the air like a bomb.
Brother?
I felt Lyke go rigid beside me.
"What did you just say?" My voice was barely a whisper.
But Morris was looking at Lyke, his expression almost gleeful despite the pain. "Oh, you didn't tell her? Of course, you didn't. Always so careful with your secrets, aren't you, Damien?"
"Morris," Damien's voice was warning.
"Did you tell her about Jennifer, Lyke?" His voice was getting weaker but more insistent. "About what you did? About why, she really died?"
"Stop," Lyke commanded.
"Stop what? Telling the truth?" Morris coughed again, harder this time. "She deserves to know who she married. What you're capable of. What we're both…"
The machines started beeping frantically. His eyes rolled back, and his hand went slack against the sheets.
"Nurse!" I called out.
Medical staff rushed in, pushing us out of the way.
"You need to leave," a doctor said firmly. "Now."
Lyke pulled me towards the door, but I stumbled because my mind was reeling.
We made it to the hallway before I wrenched my hand free and turned to face him.
"What did he mean?" I demanded. "What did he mean by 'brother'?"
His face was pale. "Not here."
"Oh no, you are going to tell me what the f**k is going on, right here, right now." My voice was rising. "Who the hell is Jennifer, and what did you do?"
"Mrs. Ashford—" Fanny started, moving toward us.
"We're leaving," Lyke said, grabbing my hand again.
"No, we aren't…"
"For God's sake, not now, Ethel."
There was something in his voice—not anger, but something close to desperation—that made me stop fighting.
We walked to the elevator in silence. Rode down in silence. When we reached the parking lot, I pulled away again.
"You better start talking," I muttered. "Right now, or this marriage is over."
Lyke leaned against his car, running a hand through his hair. For the first time since I'd met him, he looked lost.
"Morris and I..." He stopped, then started again. “We are brothers.”
- Writer
