Linda Castillo - Breaking Silence

Tomasetti pauses at the doorway, his arms crossed, watching me in a way that makes me feel self-conscious.

Setting the glass in the sink, I face him. “I really am okay now.”

“I didn’t ask.”

“Then stop looking at me as if I’m going to fall apart. And don’t bother lecturing me about the booze.”

He takes my tone in stride, doesn’t even bother looking away. “I’m the last person to lecture, Kate. You know that.”

I do, but the knowledge doesn’t help. Drinking myself into a stupor was not only self-destructive but counterproductive. I’m stumbling drunk, but far from numb. The pain is still there, like an arrow sticking out of my back.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks after a moment.

“No.” I raise my gaze to his. “Thank you, but I really don’t.”

He crosses to the table, pulls out a chair, and sits down. After a moment, I join him. I can’t look at him, so I put my face in my hands.

“I think you had a lot of emotions tied up in this case,” he says. “Too many. And not just with Salome. You were getting close to Mose, too.”

The words hurt, as if he reached out and twisted the arrow, drove it in a little deeper. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but I can’t talk about this right now.”

“We don’t have to talk about it tonight. You don’t even have to talk to me about it. But at some point you’ll need to talk to someone.”

For the span of several minutes, the only sounds come from the rain pattering the windows, the water dripping off the eaves outside, the hiss of wind through the screen.

After a while, I raise my gaze to his. “I should have let him go.”

“You could have done that. Of course, if you had, Mose might’ve killed you. He might’ve killed Salome and her baby. He might’ve taken off in that truck and killed some family out for a drive, too.”

The logic behind his words should make me feel better, but it doesn’t. We fall silent. Even through the booze, I feel the tension in the room rise. “He was only seventeen years old,” I say in a small voice.

“That didn’t make him any less dangerous.”

“He was Amish. I can’t reconcile myself to that. He’ll never get the chance to live his life. Because of me, he’ll never—” The emotions grip me and shake me. Shocked by the power of them, I set both hands on the table, aware that my heart rate is elevated. Hoping Tomasetti doesn’t notice my distress, I walk to the window and gulp the wet winter air.

“Kate.”

Tomasetti’s voice reaches me as if from a great distance. I jump when he puts his hands on my shoulders. My first instinct is to shake him off and tell him I’m fine. The truth of the matter is, I need him. I’m a thousand miles from fine, and so far gone that I’m afraid I might never find my way back.

He squeezes my shoulders. “You’re going to be okay.”

I don’t turn to him. I feel as if I’m inching closer and closer to some precipitous edge. “I killed a kid today. How can I be okay?”

“If you hadn’t made the choice you did, a fifteen-year-old girl might be lying dead in the morgue instead. You might have been killed, too. You made a tough call, but it was the right one.”

“Nothing feels right about this case.”

“Sometimes that’s just the way it is. Sometimes no one wins, and people like us, the ones who are left to pick up the pieces, have to suck it up and move on.”

Everything I know about him scrolls through my mind: the murders of his wife and children, the vengeance he doled out in the aftermath of their deaths. I want to ask him how he lives with it. But I already know the answer. He doesn’t. The things that happened to him—the things he did—eat at him the same way my guilt and regrets eat at me. Now he’s trying to save me from suffering the same fate.

He runs his hands up and down my arms. I’m hyperaware of his proximity, the warmth of his skin against mine. His fingertips are electric as they skim, and gooseflesh traces down my arms. When I shiver, he turns me to face him.

I don’t want to look into his eyes. I don’t want him to see the ugly things I’m feeling. I feel stripped bare, and I know if he sees my face, he’ll know something about me that I’ve been trying to hide. That dark stain that’s spread over my soul. The one that’s been there since I was fourteen years old. The one I made darker and larger today.

When I don’t look at him, he puts his palm against my face and forces the issue. “I know it doesn’t feel like it now, but you’re going to be all right,” he says softly.

I try to pull down that thick curtain I’m so good at keeping in place, but I don’t know if I manage to. I feel exposed and vulnerable beneath his gaze. So much so that I begin to tremble. I sense this is a profound moment, but I’m not sure why. I’ve had this man in my bed. He’s been inside me—my mind, my body, my heart. But now he’ll know all of those other facets. The ones I’ve never shared with him. The ones I’ve never shared with anyone.

“Maybe it’s just the getting there that’s so hard,” I whisper.

I see a rare compassion in his eyes, and it strikes me that he’s done time in the same dark place that haunts me tonight. And I realize he already knows about the other side of me. The imperfect part prone to dark moods and fits of rage. The part of me that drinks too much and courts danger and lies about it when I have to. In that moment, I know he gets it. He gets me. I’m thirty-one years old, and this is the first time anyone has ever given me the gift of true understanding. The knowledge moves me profoundly, relieves me because I finally know I no longer have to hide that.

“You need to get a handle on the booze.” There’s no reproach in his voice, and he makes no attempt to soften the words with platitudes or euphemisms. That’s one of the things I love about Tomasetti. You get what you get, no frills.

“Don’t let it get ahold of you, Kate. It’ll ruin your life. I don’t want that to happen to you.”

I don’t have anything to say about that. Maybe because he’s right, and I’ve known for quite some time this talk was coming. Known that I needed it. I’m glad it came from him, because I probably wouldn’t listen to anyone else.

“I know,” I say. “I will.”

We fall silent. The tempo of the rain has increased, slapping the ground, splashing against the brick. I feel the cold air wafting in through the open window behind me. Tomasetti is standing in front of me, as warm and solid as a promise—the kind I know can be counted on.

“So are you okay?” he asks after a moment.

“Almost.” I meet his gaze, hold it. “I’m glad you’re here.”

He smiles. “That’s what all the women tell me.”

I release a laugh, and the burden I’d been holding most of the day lightens just a little. “You’re an ass, you know that?”

“That’s why you can’t get enough of me.”

Being with Tomasetti like this is like a healing balm for all the parts of me that are broken. Tonight, he’s a light at the end of a long, dark tunnel. He’s the warmth of dawn after the endless cold of a winter night. He is laughter in the face of grief. Honesty when life is a jumble of lies. Sanity in a world gone mad.

I don’t know if I love him. I’m not sure what love is or if I’m qualified to make that proclamation. One thing I do know is that I care for him more than I’ve ever cared for another human being. He moves me; he shakes up my world. When I’m with Tomasetti, I don’t see myself as a scarred creature with a past. I’m whole and new and the world is full of possibilities. The future is mine for the taking if I just hang in there.

Tonight, I need him. I need him with every cell in my body. I need him on so many levels, I couldn’t begin to sort through them or make sense of any of it. I need him with an urgency that scares me, because control is the one thing I will never relinquish, even to him.