Matthew finally forgave me for the choices I had made, particularly my decision to converse with Francis instead of him—a decision that had carved a chasm between us. His apology was heartfelt, his voice laden with guilt and self-reproach.
“I acted like a child. I’m very sorry for that,” he said, looking down, his tone heavy with shame.
“There, there,” I replied, patting him on the back in an attempt to offer some solace. Yet the air between us still carried a weight we both felt deeply.
As if on cue, he shifted the conversation to something darker. “They found Francis’ thirteenth victim,” he said gravely, “a woman by the name of Paula Johnson, aged twenty-nine.”
“My God…” The words barely escaped my lips as the gravity of what he had said settled over me like a storm cloud.
“Indeed,”
