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Belle’s house had a red front door. There was a short cobbled path leading from the front gate to the porch steps; it was mismatched, slightly uneven, and extremely homely. Gold’s cane tapped smartly against the stones as he followed her along them.
She hesitated by the door. “Are you okay?”
He looked around him, felt the drifting breeze, saw the sky all tumbled and open above him.
“Yes,” he said. “I’m okay.”
*
“This isn’t what I expected.”
“What did you expect, Miss French?”
“I don’t know. Something darker, I guess? Black walls, sinister candlelight…”
He sounds amused. “You came here thinking of Alcatraz.”
“Or Azkaban.” She looks around the clean, sterile room, gleaming white. “This is more like a hospital.”
“And I’m wearing scrubs. Miss French, as lovely as it is to have a visitor…?”
He’s not wearing scrubs. He’s wearing a snow-white jumpsuit, so bright with bleach that it hurts her eyes. Around his wrists, the silver manacles clink. “Mr Gold, I know you don’t know me,” she starts. “But your son – this is going to sound crazy – your son… appeared to me.”
He’s unruffled. “He tends to do that.”
“You’re not… You believe me?”
“Miss French, my son has been dead for almost thirteen years. Do you really think you’re the only person his spirit has visited in all that time?”
She hadn’t thought of it in that way. “You’re speaking as though your son’s ghost is a common occurrence.”
“It is.”
“Oh.”
There’s a short silence.
“Neal appeared to you,” Gold prompts, raising one hand before the chains force him to lower it again.
“Yes,” she says. “He appeared to me. He says… He says I have to help you prove your innocence.”
“Ah.”
“I’m a writer, you see.”
“A journalist?”
“Not by choice,” she says unhappily. “It pays the bills.”
“A writer,” he repeats expressively. “Now the sinister candlelight makes sense.”
She looks doubtfully around the brightly-lit room again. “I just thought prisons were supposed to be frightening,” she says.
He smiles then, a wolfish expression on his slender face. “Trust me, Miss French,” he says, leaning forwards. “You’ll get there.”
*
The key trembled in her fingers as she unlocked the door. Gold reached forward, closed his hand around hers. “You don’t have to—”
She pressed herself against him, her hair soft and feather-light on his face. “I can’t believe it’s finally over. You’re finally here. You’re finally free.”
Gently, he reached around her, one hand smoothing through her hair. “You rescued me.”
*
“What was that?”
He leans back, looking around interestedly as though he can capture the long, mournful sound and keep it for himself. “That, Miss French, is the sound that gave this place its name.”
“Castle Lamentos. The Castle of Wailing.”
“Very good, dearie.”
“You must admit it would be far more poetic if this place actually lived up to its name.”
“Hordes of rats, dripping taps, flickering fires?”
“Among other things.” The corners of her mouth are twitching.
His eyes are wandering around the room again. “Fear can come in many forms,” he says distantly.
“Mr Gold—”
“You want to know if I’m innocent. If I’m worth staking your career on.”
“I don’t have a career. I told you, I don’t want to be a journalist.”
“Ah,” he says shrewdly. “But if your revelations free an innocent from the clutches of la castillo lamendos – a publisher would be lucky to have your novel, after that.”
“Well, are you?”
“What if I’m not?”
“Mr Gold—”
“What if I killed my wife and son, just as I’ve been accused? What if I strangled my fourteen-year-old boy and slid a knife between my wife’s ribs, just like it says on my arrest record?”
She leans forward, eyes on his face. “What if you didn’t?”
“I was found at the scene, covered in their blood.”
“You found them. You tried to revive them.”
“The knife had only my fingerprints on it.”
“You picked it up afterwards. You didn’t know.”
“Is that what my son told you?”
“Conjecture,” she says, sitting back a little. His eyes are gleaming. “I read your file.”
“They only send the worst criminals to Lamentos.”
“Even the police make mistakes.”
“Nobody was in any doubt of my guilt.”
“You pleaded innocence in your trial.”
“Who else could have killed them? Who else would have killed them?”
“Your wife had a lover.”
“Ah, yes.” He leans back in his chair, hands coming as much together as the cuffs will allow. “Mr Jones. But, of course, he has an alibi.”
“He was playing poker at a club with seven friends,” she recites. “They could be lying for him.”
“He was also seen by the club doormen, the owner, and several unrelated patrons.”
She knew that. “He went outside to take a phone call at around twenty past eleven. No one saw him. The club is only a few minutes away from your home.”
“He returned to the club at ten to twelve. The medical examiner stated definitely that my wife was killed between quarter past and half past twelve.”
“But not your son.”
“No, not my son. He could have died at any time between eleven and half past eleven.”
“They think,” she says hesitantly, “they think that you killed your son first. That your wife found his body, and you fought for a while before you killed her.”
“That’s what they said at the trial.”
“Your son said that you didn’t kill him, or his mother.”
“Mr Jones could not have killed my wife. Nor did he have any reason to do so.”
“She was planning on leaving you for him.”
“I would have been glad to see her go.”
“You hated her. Your neighbour heard you say so.”
“Mrs Lucas. She was perfectly correct, dearie.”
“But,” Belle presses, “Killian Jones could have killed your son.”
“He could,” Gold allows. “But then who killed my wife? Surely, Miss French, you don’t suggest that my home was victim to two killers in one night?”
“Did your son like him?”
“Mr Jones?”
“Yes.”
“There was some animosity, but not enough to give even the most unhinged mind a reason to kill a teenage boy.”
“Would he have stayed with you, if your wife left?”
“There was no question of anything else. Milah had no interest in taking him with her.”
“So you’d talked about it with her.”
“That’s right.”
“That’s not what you said at the trial. You said you hadn’t known she was planning on leaving you.”
The smile that unfurls across his face is slow, dangerous, impressed. “You’ve tricked me, Miss French.” He sounds rather pleased.
“I told you I’m a journalist,” she says complacently.
“I lied at the trial.”
“Why?”
“On the advice of my lawyer.” His face creases in irritation. “He believed that admitting that I knew of Milah’s plans would be tantamount to admitting guilt.”
“It didn’t do you much good.”
“Indeed not.”
“You didn’t care that she was leaving you?”
“There had not been much love lost between us for many years.”
“Why didn’t she want to take your son with her?”
“They didn’t have much of a relationship. I had done most of the parenting since Bae was very young.”
“Did he know she was leaving?”
“Yes.”
“How did he feel about it?”
“He said that he didn’t care, but I know that he felt abandoned.”
“Did you tell her that?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I didn’t want to risk her changing her mind about taking him to spite me.”
“Even though it was hurting him?”
“I believed it would be better for him to be hurt now than to have to live with her.”
“He said that too.”
His eyes widen. “What did he say, Miss French?”
“He said you were always trying to protect him.”
“Always.” For the first time, he doesn’t sound as though he’s trying to trap her. He sounds… sincere.
“If Killian Jones didn’t kill your wife, who did?”
“I was convicted, Miss French.”
“Your son sent me to prove your innocence.”
“I wonder why he did that?”
“He doesn’t want you dying here.”
“Is that what he said?”
“Yes.” She blushes. “Well…”
“Yes, Miss French?”
“He said he thought I’d like you.”
“And do you?”
“I don’t know. We’ve only just met.” She pauses. “Do you like me?”
“You’re the only person I’ve had a conversation with in thirteen years.”
“Is that a yes?”
He smiles. “Yes, Miss French, I like you.”
*
She brought him a cup of coffee, sat beside him as he sipped at it. It had been a long time since he’d had a decent cup of coffee. Gold rested his hand on her knee as he drank.
“It’s finally over,” she said, although her voice was hesitant. He looked up, his eyes meeting hers. God, she was beautiful.
“Yes,” he said simply.
“He’s… he’s facing justice, now,” Belle said. “He’ll never get out of prison.”
“No one ever escapes Castle Lamentos,” Gold agreed.
*
“Could Killian Jones have paid someone to kill your wife?”
“After he strangled my son?”
“Yes.”
“His fingerprints weren’t found on my son’s body.”
“Your son had been splashed with water. It could have washed away any fingerprints.”
“A poor method of concealing one’s tracks, don’t you think?”
She smiles. “So it couldn’t have been you that did it, then, could it?”
“Since I’m so much smarter than that?”
“Exactly.”
“It could be a double bluff,” he suggests.
“Not a very good one. You’re still in here.”
“Perhaps this is exactly where I want to be.”
She stares at him, astonished. “Why on earth would you want to be here?”
His smile shows his teeth. “You’re here, aren’t you?”
*
“I’ve been offered a job at an editor’s,” she told him. A small self-deprecating smile appeared on her face. “Well, I’ve been offered about a hundred jobs, actually.”
Gold put his half-empty coffee cup on a dark wooden side table, making sure it rested on a coaster. “That’s what happens when you single-handedly catch a killer. And prove the innocence of one of the country’s most dangerous criminals.”
“That’s what they’re saying,” Belle said guiltily.
“None of that,” he said gently. “You deserve this.”
*
“Killian’s fingerprints might not have been on your son’s body, but they were in the house.”
“Naturally. My wife had brought him there on many occasions.”
“When you weren’t home.”
“I imagine she got a thrill from the illicit nature of their encounters there.”
“And sometimes he saw Bae there.”
“That’s right. As soon as he understood what Milah was doing with Mr Jones, he informed me.”
“That’s how you found out about your wife’s affair.”
“I’d suspected it for a while, but yes, Bae confirmed it.”
“How long had you known before they were killed?”
“Several weeks.”
“You didn’t think of leaving her yourself?”
He shifts a little in his chair, the manacles clinking together. “As I’ve said, Miss French, my marriage had been loveless for quite some time. Bae was happy; I saw no reason to upset the status quo.”
She frowns. “Seems like you didn’t have much reason to kill her, then. You obviously weren’t jealous.”
“Perhaps I was obsessively in love with her,” he says. “Perhaps it was only when she told me she was leaving me that I snapped.”
“That’s what the prosecution argued.”
“They were very convincing. The jury voted unanimously.”
“But Killian Jones…”
“You seem quite fixated on Mr Jones, Miss French.”
“He’s the only other person with any motive.”
“And what motive would that be?”
“Perhaps he didn’t want to be with your wife anymore.”
He smiles, a ghost of an expression. “Oh, no, Miss French. He loved Milah. Of that I am absolutely certain.”
“Well, maybe he’s some kind of maniac.”
“If so, a psychological evaluation failed to identify it.”
“He didn’t like your son.”
“Yes, that’s what he said. He felt that Bae interfered with his relationship with Milah.”
“So maybe he killed him – no, wait, listen! Maybe he killed him, and Milah interrupted him. Then he had to kill her too, to hide what he’d done.”
He regards her thoughtfully. “You think he was so antagonised by Bae’s presence that he strangled him?”
“His ex-girlfriend said he had a tendency to become besotted with women.”
“Ah, yes, I wondered when you’d remember Miss Swan’s testimony.”
“She said her relationship with him was incredibly intense. She found herself falling for him so deeply that she almost forgot about everything else, even her own son.”
“Yes, he certainly has that kind of magnetism to women.”
“She said he resented her son’s intrusion into their relationship.”
“Curious, how his second relationship mirrored his first so closely.”
“Maybe he killed Bae in a fit of jealousy?”
“I could certainly believe the impulse, Miss French. Mr Jones was not shy in admitting that he had no interest in befriending Bae.”
“But you don’t think he killed him.”
“Miss Swan was asked, under oath, whether she ever felt herself or her son to be in danger from Mr Jones. She was shocked at the question.”
“She said that it was only a slight resentment. But she loved him. Maybe she was protecting him.”
“She was engaged at the time to another man. She had no reason to do so.”
“Are they still together?”
“Miss Swan and Mr Jefferson? Yes, I believe so. They have several children.”
“Well, maybe she didn’t know Killian as well as she thought she did.”
“Perhaps not,” he acknowledges, bowing his head. “Even the closest to us can surprise us.”
“So maybe he did kill Bae,” she says excitedly. “Maybe he hoped to pin it on you, so that he and Milah could be free of you and Bae.”
“A clever plot indeed.”
“Milah worked as a bartender, didn’t she?”
He inclines his head. “She worked at The Rabbit Hole.”
“So he knew Bae would be home alone.”
“No, he had no way of knowing that. I should have been with him.”
“You went out to get cigarettes from the corner shop. The shop assistant remembers serving you at five to twelve.” She pauses, watching him; there’s just the slightest flicker in his eyes. “It’s not your fault,” she says softly.
“I frequently left my son alone at home, Miss French. He was fourteen.” His voice is business-like.
“Why shouldn’t you?”
“Indeed.”
“Well, maybe Killian saw you leaving the house. He could have!” she says excitedly. “The club was nearby. Maybe he saw you and took a chance.”
“Perhaps.”
“But he didn’t expect Milah to come home. She left work early, her co-worker said.”
“That’s right. She left work at five past eleven. She wasn’t feeling well.”
“How long would it have taken her to get home?”
“It depends. There’s a shortcut which takes only five minutes. However, Milah liked walking the scenic route, which would take nearly twenty minutes.”
“If she wasn’t feeling well—”
“She suffered from headaches. She found that fresh air helped, so she’d be more likely to take the longer route home.”
“So, that fits,” Belle says happily. “She would have arrived home at about half past eleven. Maybe she walked in on Killian strangling your son. She tried to stop him, but it was too late.”
“And thus he killed her to prevent her from telling anybody,” Gold finishes. He sounds approving.
“Yes!”
“You’re forgetting one thing, Miss French.”
“What?”
“My wife did not die at half past eleven. She died between quarter and half past twelve.”
“According to the medical examiner.”
“Yes.”
“Could he have been bribed?”
“She.”
“She was a woman?”
“Yes, Miss French.”
“Didn’t you say Killian Jones was magnetic to women?”
*
Belle leaned against his shoulder, his arms encircling her. Just this small freedom, to be able to touch her without the restraints to which he had become so accustomed in prison, was enough to make his heart sing.
“It would never have worked if the examiner hadn’t changed her testimony, anyway,” she said almost dreamily. Her eyes were closed. “Cora Mills.”
“Ms Mills stated that the evidence she provided was more than likely accurate,” Gold pointed out.
“But she did lie for him,” Belle said obstinately. “It doesn’t matter that she thought it wouldn’t make a difference. Her lies were what put you in that terrible place.”
Gold leaned forward, pressed a soft kiss to her hairline, his fingers tangling through the tendrils of her dark curls.
*
“You’re very good at asking questions, Miss French.”
“I’m interested in you.”
“You believe that I’m innocent, don’t you?”
“Your son said you were.”
“He’s dead.”
“I saw him. He ought to know.”
“Perhaps he’s a figment of your imagination.”
“You think I imagined a fourteen-year-old boy who just happens to look exactly like pictures of your son that I’d never seen before he appeared to me?”
“Well, perhaps not.”
“Well, then,” she says firmly.
“Perhaps he’s lying to you.”
“Why would he lie? You’re his father.”
“Exactly.”
“If you killed him, he wouldn’t want you to be free.”
“Perhaps he plans on punishing me himself.”
“He can do that in here. You said you see him too.”
“Frequently. It’s the only thing that keeps me from going mad.”
“Seeing the ghost of your dead son keeps you sane?”
He grins. “It sounds bad when you put it like that.”
Belle laughs. “I know what you meant.”
“He’s a special boy, my son.”
“I guess if he’d lived, he’d be the same sort of age as me.”
“How old are you?”
“I thought I was supposed to be asking the questions,” she hedges.
He grins at her again. “Maybe it’s my turn.”
“My father doesn’t keep lambs,” she warns him.
He outright laughs at that; it’s a nice, merry sound. “Do I strike you as a Hannibal, Miss French?”
“You’re much better-looking than Anthony Hopkins.”
Gold raises an eyebrow. “Why, thank you.”
Belle blushes. “I’m thirty-one.”
“I’m forty-seven. Does that seem very old to you?”
“No.”
“I’m old enough to be your father.”
“Yes, if you were part of America’s national teen pregnancy statistics.”
“I’m Scottish.”
“Your accent gave you away.”
He smiles. “You’re not afraid of me.”
“You haven’t given me a reason to be,” she says, lifting her chin proudly.
“Apart from being convicted of the murders of my wife and son.”
“Apart from that.”
“Are you with anyone, Miss French?”
“I was.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing. I got bored.”
“Does that happen often?”
“Sometimes. I have a very vivid imagination. It needs stimulating.”
“So you’re looking for someone exciting. Someone to sweep you off your feet.”
“That sounds like a storybook hero,” she says contemptuously.
“You don’t like storybooks?”
“On the contrary,” she says. “I love reading.”
“But?”
“But I’m a writer. More than anyone, I know that there’s a difference between a story and reality.”
“So who are you looking for?”
“Maybe I’m not looking for anyone.”
“You’re independent.”
“Yes. But…”
“But?”
“But, if I was looking for someone, I’d want someone who would never be boring.”
*
“I haven’t seen him since you were released.” Belle’s voice was muffled in his shoulder.
Gold didn’t need to ask her who she meant. “No, neither have I,” he said. He thought about the last time he had seen his son; not the thin, pale ghost of a child who had visited him through all those lonely years behind bars, but his real, flesh-and-blood son, dark hair and teenage acne and that flashing, quick, untidy smile. “I hope he’s at peace now.”
*
“Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”
“Noticed what, Miss French?”
“You haven’t said that you’re guilty. You haven’t said that you did it.”
“I haven’t said that I’m innocent, either.”
“If Killian Jones persuaded the medical examiner to lie to the court, he could have killed Milah and Bae.”
“She also said that Mr Jones’ hands were too large to fit the bruises around my son’s neck.” He flexes his finger, and the cuffs jangle once more. “My hands are much smaller than the average man’s, as you may have noticed.”
“I’m sure it’s not indicative,” she says without thinking.
He winks lasciviously at her. “Certainly not.”
Belle smiles a tiny, blushing smile. “Well, anyway. She could have lied about that too. Or just made a mistake.”
“She admitted that there was some margin of error on that point,” Gold agrees.
“Mr Gold, did you kill your son?”
“I thought you had already decided the answer to that.”
“You haven’t given me a single declarative statement since I got here.”
“Perhaps I’m trying to prolong our conversation.”
“And why would you do that?”
“Because I’m enjoying it.” He leans forwards. “That’s a declarative statement, Miss French.”
*
Later, Belle curled herself around him in bed. Her bedroom was small, cosy, with laundry scattered across a chair underneath the window and a too-large oak wardrobe by the door. He’d offered to sleep on the sofa, but she’d negated that suggestion immediately.
“I want you with me.” She hesitated, chewed her lip. “Don’t… don’t you want that?”
He captured her face in his hands, kissed her mouth. “More than anything.”
“You deserve it too,” she said softly. She stroked his face. “You deserve happiness.”
“Do I?”
*
“You didn’t kill your son.”
“No, Miss French, I didn’t kill my son.”
“I can tell you love him, just from the way you talk about him.”
“He’s my son. He’s the centre of the world.”
“Even now?”
“Especially now.”
“Do you think he’ll be at peace once you’re released?”
“I thought you didn’t believe in fairy tales, Miss French.”
She sits back. “I didn’t believe in ghosts, either.”
“And yet you’re remarkably unsurprised by the existence of one.”
“I keep an open mind.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
“Are you flirting with me on purpose?”
“Would you call that flirting?”
“When you look at me like that, yes.”
He gives her his wolfish smile. “Yes, Miss French, I’m flirting with you on purpose.”
*
Her body was soft, curved against his as though it had been designed for the space he made for her; his hand dragged across her belly, darted lower to brush the thatch of curls between her legs. Belle made a satisfied sound low in the back of her throat, rubbing herself back against his cock.
“I love you, you know,” he said into her hair.
“Do you?” She sounded surprised.
“Oh, God.” It rushed into him, how much he loved her, how much that love filled him so completely. “Yes. Yes, I love you.”
*
“I’m not stupid, you know.”
“I’m well aware, Miss French.”
“I do understand you.”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“I know you’re innocent. I mean, morally innocent.”
“If you say so.”
“You just won’t admit to anything.”
“You say everything that needs to be said.”
“Do you think you’d want to see me again, if I got you out of here?”
“I’d want to see you again even if you didn’t get me out of here.”
She smiles. “Ask me again.”
“What?” He frowns, perplexed.
“Ask me if I like you.”
“Ah.” He grins in understanding. “Do you like me, Miss French?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
*
She kissed him properly the next morning, a deep, open-mouthed kiss that left him gasping and panting for her touch. She smiled into his breathless mouth, kissed him again.
“It’s over now,” she said, relief colouring her words.
“I hope so,” he said cautiously.
“It is,” she insisted. “We did the right thing. That man… That man got what he deserved.”
*
“I’m going to report everything we’ve spoken about to the police. I’m going to get the case reopened.”
“I believe you, Miss French.”
“It’s not just because your son asked me to.”
“No?”
“You deserve to be free. And that man deserves to pay for the death of your son.”
“You truly believe him to be responsible?”
She looks fiercely into his brown eyes. “It’s because of him that Bae is dead.”
“You really do understand, don’t you?”
“I promise, Mr Gold, I’m going to get you out of here.”
*
Gold didn’t read the newspaper, although it was delivered to the house that morning. He didn’t need to hear what was being said; didn’t need to see the screaming headlines proclaiming Killian Jones, his old nemesis, the worst kind of murderer.
Belle scanned them only briefly before putting the paper in the bin. “Do you want eggs?” she asked, her tone just a touch too bright.
He watched her carefully. “He’s singing a new tune, our Killian,” he said.
“No one believes a word he says anymore,” Belle said firmly. She hesitated. “There’s a difference. Between things being legally right, and… and morally right.”
“Yes.”
“What we did was right. It was right.”
*
“I’m switching the recording off now.”
“As you wish.”
“Mr Gold—”
“Yes, Miss French?”
“Tell me what happened. Tell me how Milah and Bae died.”
“Off the record?”
“Off the record.”
He hesitates for one long, long moment, his eyes searching her face. He’s beautiful against the pure white of his surroundings.
“Milah didn’t take the scenic route home that night,” he says. “She told her colleagues she was feeling unwell, but the truth was that we’d had a conversation earlier in the day that was weighing on her. She wanted to discuss it with me, and so she returned early from work.”
“What had you talked about?”
“The possibility of her having to pay me alimony, for Bae.” He makes a face. “I hadn’t really meant it. I’d thrown it at her in an argument because I was bitter about her leaving him. But for her, the idea of having to pay me money… of being tied to me, to Bae, in such a tangible manner… She was hysterical.”
“She came home to confront you.”
“She arrived home at about ten past eleven. She was very emotional. I told her I would talk to her when she had calmed down, and I left the house.”
“How long were you gone?”
“Over an hour. I went for a walk by the river. I bought some cigarettes.”
“When did you get home?”
“I arrived home at about a quarter past twelve.”
Belle’s eyes are filled with tears. Impulsively, she reaches out for his chained hands. “And when you got there…”
“Bae was dead.” He stops, his teeth biting down into his lower lip. “Jones had been there. His scarf was on the countertop. It hadn’t been there when I’d left.”
“It wasn’t your fault.”
“I should never have left him alone. I should have known that Milah would call Jones.”
“That was the phone call he got at the club?”
“I’d imagine so, yes.”
“And then?”
“Miss French…”
She squeezes his hands. “Nothing you say is going to make me stop caring about you.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I said that you were morally innocent.”
He looks at her carefully. “So you did.”
“Milah was hysterical. She was emotionally unstable. She was deeply, intensely in love with Killian Jones, and she felt as though Bae was stopping her from being happy with him.”
“Yes.”
“It wasn’t Killian who killed him.”
“Oh, no,” Gold says wearily. “Oh, no, it wasn’t Killian who killed him. My son died at the hand of his mother.”
*
“An innocent man is in prison, because of what we did,” Gold reminded her. Her eyes skittered away from him, across the little kitchen. The eggs were burning on the stove; it was very prosaic.
“He’s not innocent,” Belle said. “He was there. He knew what Milah had done.” She paused. “He might have seen her do it.”
“We can’t know that,” he said, although his vision was starting to blur even at the thought. He imagined his son, his beautiful, bright-eyed boy, dying alone and afraid. “He may only have been there afterwards.”
“He was there,” Belle said loudly. “He was there, in your house, while your son was dying. He could have done something. Bae might have lived.”
Oh God, he could picture it; Bae, growing up, reaching adulthood, becoming a man. He’d have been exquisite. “I wasn’t there to save him.”
“No,” she said. “But Jones was there. He could have saved him. He could have tried. But he just saved himself.”
*
Belle looks around the white, white room again. She’d pictured darkness, when she thought of the worst prison in the world; envisioned dank foul-smelling pits in which the worst of humanity languished in heavy rusted chains.
“You killed her.”
“I killed her.”
“Because she killed your son.”
“As you say.”
“That’s why you were covered in her blood.”
“Yes.”
What had he said before? Fear can come in many forms. Everything so neat, so clean, in such straight sterile lines, the walls closing in around her. Madness is white.
*
“We did the right thing,” Belle said again.
“I am a murderer,” he said quietly. Belle didn’t reply for a moment, her blue eyes creased in consternation.
She moved towards him, arms outstretched to embrace him. “You punished the murderer of your son. You’re not a murderer, you’re… you’re an avenger.”
“You still believe in me, my Belle, after everything?” he murmured, tightening his hold on her. She was sitting in his lap, kissing his temple.
“You’re a good man,” she said fiercely.
He looked into her lovely face, chest constricted with the force of his utter love for her. “Belle—”
“Are you going to ask me if I love you too?” she demanded.
Gold reached up, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Perhaps.”
“I do. I love you.”
“Oh, my darling,” he sighed, crushing her against him. “Thank God.”
*
“Are you afraid now, Miss French?”
Across the white table top between them, her hands tighten around his, the silver cuffs clinking gently.