Vacant Heart

Chapter Eight

My horror is instantaneous.

I'd already dove through files on him, scoured every sentence. The paperwork detailed that Aidan Hughes wife and two year old daughter were found dead in the woods three years ago. There wasn't much else. No coroner's report. No mention of a river. Aidan would have been twenty-nine at the time.

"Aidan," I breathe, gaping. "I-I..."

"The only reason I am telling you that is because it's common knowledge that they are gone," he says, cutting me off. He hasn't turned around, and I'm glad for it because he'd find a pale, repentant woman looking his way.

"I didn't know or I wouldn't have..."

"You're honestly telling me you didn't know they were dead? Or you didn't know they drowned?"

"Drowned."

"Well, you'll have a fine addition to your story then," he says, angrily.

"I will never publish anything without your consent, Aidan," I say, walking up to him. I lay a hand upon his back, somehow feeling his pain through his body. It radiates through my palm and manages to drain my energy. "All you have to do is say it's off the record and I will never tell. I promise."

"And I'm supposed to trust that?"

"I'm not a monster," I whisper, shocked by how sharp he's become.

"Journalists are monsters in my eyes," he responds, tearing himself away from my touch. My eyes helplessly follow him, every part of me yearning to rewind time back to five minutes ago, where awkward tension was my only worry.

"Journalists are very different from paparazzi," I press.

"No, they're not."

I blink, appalled. "Excuse me?"

He spins, his eyes, once a dull shade of grey, now swarm with contempt and rage. "You all dig, and dig, and pry, and force us to relieve every detail of our lives for your own personal gain. I've been hounded for years by you people. Paparazzi and journalists and goddamn reporters alike! Lily was barely cold in the ground before people started lining those gates, pretending as if they somehow had the right to demand answers from me."

"I'm truly offended you think I'm anything like them," I snap, eyes wide. My chest feels swollen, swollen enough to hurt.

"Have you given me any reason not to believe that's why you're trying to get to know me? Sure, you divulged a bit of your life story and made me remember what it was like to want someone, but in reality, you're here because you want something. And every move I make, you are watching, and the fact that I'm drawn to you like a moth to a fucking flame is probably because that's exactly what you want!"

We stare at each other for a few seconds. I watch his chest deflate and his eyes lose their spirit, feeling nothing but judgment and anger. My arms are crossed protectively over my body, not because the room is cold, but because he's brought down a very sharp barrier between us that wasn't there a moment ago.

If I had any questions on whether he felt what I was feeling, he's answered them now. He thinks I'm seducing him, for a story. He thinks that's how I work, that I'm a slut. The embarrassment I'd pushed aside in my deliriousness is suddenly upon me with bludgeoning strength. I can hardly look at him.

"Just say you want it off the damn record," I snap, focusing on the table beside his body.

"I want it off the record," he breathes, his fury dissipating, replaced by what sounds like exhaustion. I nod, curtly and walk past him.