Love Games

Twenty - eight: Kissing in the cold

I'm standing in the middle of the hallway of a huge house, looking at Jack.

There he is, in all his glory.

His dark hair is dishevelled, as if he has just woken from a nightmare, and his eyes have dark circles that I had not noticed before.

Something is happening, I can feel it, as if the walls around us are filled with tension.

Yet, despite the tiredness and the anger I see in his eyes, he is still attractive.

"Who were you calling when it happened?" he says, his voice rising in anger.

His anger is palpable, as if I could grab it and hold it between my fingers.

His mood changes like the weather; a moment ago he might have loved me, but now in his eyes I am just an investigator, a man not to be trusted.

I thought I knew this man, but now?

What do I know about him?

I know that he is Jack, that he is a mafia boss, and that is all. How old is he? What are his dreams? I have no idea.

"No one," I lie.

My heart is beating like crazy.

I can't tell the truth.

I can't.

There's too much at stake.

"Sarah, this is no joke. People are dead," he says, his voice icy.

His gaze pierces me, as if to force me to speak.

There is no turning back now. "I heard about Emma," I say carefully, feeling like I'm on thin ice that could break at any moment.

"What did Emma tell you?" Jack asks, his voice calmer now but still full of accusation.

The tension in me rises.

I feel sick, my stomach turns, but there's nothing I can say.

I am shaking.

I can feel the ground shifting beneath my feet as I stand still, just outside the front door.

What is he going to do? Is he going to throw me out into the street?

"She told me it was probably me. She accused me of being the one to blame. Then I hung up," I struggle to get out.

Why am I telling him what Emma told me? Why am I giving him more weapons against me?

Jack is silent for a few moments, as if weighing my words, as if searching for the small piece of truth he can perceive.

His gaze is fixed on me and his face remains unflinching.

I feel like I could fall to the floor, like my legs are no longer holding me up, but somehow I keep going. I have to.

"Are you guilty? Did you do it? He finally asks me, his voice softer now, almost calculating.

At that moment, all the anger seems to have disappeared, giving way to something far more sinister.

His question hits me like a punch in the gut. Do I think I am guilty? My mind searches for answers that are not there, truths that I dare not speak.

"No," I say, but my voice is not as firm as I would like. It sounds like a whisper, as if I am apologising to myself.

Jack takes a step closer and now I can feel his breath on my skin, his closeness both comforting and threatening.

His hand moves, almost imperceptibly, as if considering whether to hold me or push me away.