The room suddenly felt colder, even though nothing had changed.
The sa air, the sa heavy silence, the sa faint hum of the air conditioner, yet I felt it differently now. Everything in had shifted after reading that headline.
I sat there, staring at the papers spread out before .
The words blurred in my vision, my heartbeat echoing sowhere deep in my ears.
"Son of the Morris Family Killed the Golden Girl of St. Helena’s."
That headline refused to leave my mind. It was almost mocking .
I knew Dave wasn’t a soft man.
He never had been. He was quiet, stern, always keeping a safe emotional distance from everyone.
Even in the years we were married, I could count on one hand the number of tis he spoke gently, and most of those monts were when we were at our family’s functions.
But being cold... and being a killer?
That thought made my stomach twist painfully.
I rubbed my hands together, trying to ease the chill crawling across my skin. "Dave was cold," I murmured, more to myself than to Matteo.
"He wasn’t affectionate or polite, but he wasn’t... this. He wasn’t a psychopath."
Matteo didn’t reply to my relentless banter. He just leaned back in his chair, watching carefully, that unreadable expression still on his face.
I tried to focus back on the article, but the words no longer made sense.
They talked about a girl, Clara Channing, the girl who won the "golden child" scholarship of St. Helena’s.
She was beautiful, and the kind of person everyone loved. There were a few quotes from other students, all painting a perfect image of her.
Then ca the turn...the discovery of her body in an abandoned gym after a school event, the chaos that followed, the whispers that it was not an accident.
But what really struck was how vague it all was. There were no details that actually tied Dave to the murder directly.
Everything was built on speculation.
Rumors.
Anonymous statents.
"A male student from a well-known family was seen leaving the premises."
"There were traces of a fight."
"The Morris family denied all claims."
No proof. No conviction. Just... suspicion of him being a cold-blooded psycho killer.
The words felt too monstrous to even attach to him.
It made my skin crawl just thinking about it. During our marriage, he never once raised his voice at , let alone his hand.
He was distant, yes, cruel at tis, but never violent. Never unstable. He didn’t even like being touched, let alone hurting soone.
So how could he...?
I shook my head, realizing my thoughts were spiraling.
"No. He’s many things... but not that." I whispered, almost to myself.
Matteo’s calm voice cut through the silence, "That’s what I thought too, when I first read it, but the Morris family went through great lengths to bury it. That kind of reaction usually ans there’s so truth buried under the dirt."
I looked up sharply. "You think he actually did it?" My voice ca out louder than I intended.
He shrugged, exhaling a thin stream of smoke, "I think sothing happened that night. Sothing bad enough for the entire family to lock it away for years."
I stared at him, trying to read if he was testing or telling the truth, but Matteo was like glass that refused to shatter. You could look all you wanted, but you would never see what was behind it.
Finally, I asked the question burning in my throat, "When did this happen?"
He flicked the ash from his cigar into the tray. "His final year. Senior year, I believe."
My heart stilled at his reply.
Senior year. I thought to myself.
That was the year I had moved in with my grandparents.
The ti when my grandmother had fallen sick. I had transferred temporarily to another school branch, closer to their ho. I had been away almost a whole year.
This was also the reason I had never got to know about this.
I rembered him saying once, in one of our rare, calm monts that "high school was hell."
I had thought it was just about academics or teenage drama. He never elaborated, and I never pushed him.
Now I wondered what exactly that "hell" had been.
I ran my hand through my hair, my thoughts scattering like broken glass. "You are sure this isn’t just so made-up nonsense?"
Matteo tilted his head slightly, his dark eyes steady on mine. "I don’t deal in nonsense. Every piece of paper in that envelope was pulled from archived police records, sealed docunts, and the school’s own files. And believe , it wasn’t easy to get them."
I didn’t doubt that.
But I still did not want to believe it.
Dave was a cold, silent, emotionally unavailable.
Maybe he had flaws, but he wasn’t heartless. He wasn’t evil.
Right?
The thought hit again, sharper this ti: What if he was?
My stomach turned. I pressed a hand against it, trying to breathe through the rising nausea.
Matteo’s voice was low, careful. "I can see you don’t want to believe it. That’s good. It ans you still have hope."
I frowned at his words, "Hope for what?"
He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the desk, "Hope that the man you married isn’t who he used to be, Or maybe," he paused, "hope that he never stopped being exactly that."
I didn’t answer.
I couldn’t.
Because I didn’t know which was worse.
Marrying a man who once killed soone, or marrying a man who had been lying and hiding about it ever since.
The silence stretched between us. I could feel Matteo’s eyes on , studying every flicker of emotion that passed through my face.
Finally, he spoke again. "The Morris family made sure this never reached the press again. No records, no charges. Everything was swept clean, but people realted to it rember. Especially those who lost sothing."
I forced myself to look up at him. "And what do they rember, Matteo?"
His lips curved faintly, though it wasn’t a smile. "Enough to know that everyone hides their sins differently, Elena. So bury them in graves. Others... in marriage."
The words sank deep, heavier than I wanted them to.
I looked down at the article again, tracing the headline with my finger. The letters were faded now, but the accusation behind them still scread loudly enough.
I whispered quietly, more to myself than to him, "If this is true... I don’t even know who I have been loving in all these years."
Matteo didn’t respond. He just sat back, letting sit with that truth, and maybe that was worse than any answer he could have given .
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