His shoulders stiffened, his eyes flicking away from mine. “I didn’t have a choice. Anya… She was drugged. I couldn’t let anyone else touch her—”
“So you touched her yourself?” I stepped closer, right in front of him, my voice shaking but every word sharp and clear. “Erving, look at my mom’s grave and tell me—did you or did you not touch Anya?”
The reporters kept snapping photos, the bodyguards were shouting to hold them back, but I only had eyes for him.
I waited for him to deny it; even a lie would have been enough.
I just wanted, in front of my mother, to give her a little dignity.
But Erving’s lips parted. His throat moved as he swallowed hard, then he muttered, “Mandy, I’m sorry. I… I have to take responsibility for her.”
I froze. The words hit like a hammer, shattering my heart.
I remembered the scar he got saving me years ago.
I remembered him promising, “From now on, no matter what happens, I’ll come running to you without any hesitation.”
I remembered him holding my hand at my mom’s sickbed, promising to care for me for life.
All those memories, the ones that once made my heart race, now felt like the cruelest joke.