The Devil's Lair by A.M. Madden Page B

to face him. I’m sure he’s questioning my unorthodox reaction. His interruption of my thoughts causes my fury to return. He opens his mouth to speak, quickly shutting it when he sees the look on my face. Without breaking eye contact, he asks Jen for some privacy.
    She quickly agrees, no doubt wanting out of this situation as fast as possible. She’s done her job. Mission accomplished, bearer of bad news, back to business. Jack walks her to the door. Their hushed voices further infuriate me as I sit waiting for him to return.
    “Lei…”
    “Don’t!” I cut him off, venom dripping from my one, solitary command.
    When he stands motionless across the room, he waits a few moments before quietly walking over to sit beside me. He wordlessly wraps his arm around me. He knows there’s nothing he can say at the moment that can help me. I sit stiffly as he attempts to comfort me with his touch. The reaction I’m sure he expects from me never comes.
     
     
     

Jack
    The only thing keeping my own emotions in check at the moment is the unease I am feeling over my wife’s reaction. After Jen graciously left us to digest the horrific chain of events, Leila never cried. It was her sudden insane determination to proceed as normal that had me even more concerned.
    That night it was as if none of it happened.
    She dismissed Beverly, tending to the kids herself. I could hear her singing to them and laughing with them. When I joined her to see if she needed help, she waved me away with a smile. It’s been quiet for hours, and I know the kids are asleep. My wife has yet to surface. I’m fighting the urge to go and find her, forcing her out here to be with me. I argue with myself if she doesn’t appear in an hour, I’ll check on her. I know she needs this solitude. Even though it goes against every grain of logic, I need to give her this time and space.
    I stare into the swirling amber liquid as I stir the glass I’m holding. I’ve had three, four? I don’t feel any effects at all. It’s not making its way to my bloodstream. My esophagus is clogged, like a drain filled with muck that even this powerful whiskey can’t unclog.
    Why ?
    That’s the only thing running through my mind over and over. I’m trying not to judge her. I have no right to, but…
    Why ?
    Why would she choose such an isolated, appalling, clinical way to end her life? I stare at the box that Jen gave me, a box that Paula instructed she pass along. It sits ominously on the floor, waiting to be addressed. I sit facing it, daring it to speak. Daring it to tell me why. Hoping it holds answers. More than anything, I need a guarantee that inside that box we’ll find all we need to appease our confusion. I’m hoping that Paula left for us a roadmap on how to get through this, more importantly how to get her son through it. A box of answers wrapped neatly with a nice little bow.
    It’s not until I feel her presence that I finally stop staring at that damn box.
    “Hey.”
    Wordlessly, she gently takes the drink from my hand to take a sip. Her face scrunches as it always does when she drinks anything harder than her cheap wine. While still holding the glass she sits close, yet far enough away where we aren’t touching.
    Minutes pass as we both stare at the box.
    “We need to tell him.” I nod, although she can’t see me since she’s staring straight ahead. “We need to open it.”
    “Are you ready to do that?”
    She leans back on the couch, staring straight up at the ceiling. “It’s not about me.”
    “When?”
    “Now.”
    Our gazes meet. It’s hard to gauge what she’s feeling. The tone of her voice hints to that determination she displayed earlier. I quietly move toward the box, carrying it back to her. After I place the box on the table, she looks up at me expectantly.
    It’s what I’ve been waiting for all night. It’s time to get answers. Impulsively, I snatch off the lid, exposing a box filled to capacity. Lying on top is a handwritten