PART 3
The room suddenly seemed colder.
I looked down at the letter still trembling between my fingers.
“So you married me because you’re dying?”
“No.”
His answer came so quickly that I looked up.
“Then why?”
He was silent for several seconds.
Finally, he said, “Because I made a promise to someone.”
“Who?”
He didn’t answer.
Instead, he stood.
“I know you’ve had a difficult day. You should sleep.”
I almost laughed.
“Sleep?”
He looked at me.
“I just found out that the sixty-eight-year-old man my mother sold me to is dying, and you expect me to sleep?”
His face tightened at the word sold.
“Your mother didn’t sell you.”
I stared at him.
“She accepted one and a half million dollars.”
“I know.”
“Then what do you call that?”
He lowered his eyes.
“I call it desperation.”
That answer angered me more than anything.
“Don’t defend her.”
“I’m not.”
“She chose money over me.”
“I know.”
“She chose to send her daughter to a stranger.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you standing there acting like you understand?”
He looked at me for a long moment.
“Because I do.”
Something in his voice stopped me.
He walked toward the door.
Before leaving, he turned around.
“Your mother did not receive one and a half million dollars.”
I frowned.
“What?”
“She received a contract.”
My heart began pounding.
“What does that mean?”
“It means you were told only half the story.”
He opened the door.
“Goodnight, Valerie.”
“Wait.”
He stopped.
“What contract?”
He didn’t turn around.
“Tomorrow.”
Then he closed the door.
I remained sitting on the bed.
My mind raced.
A contract.
What contract?
Why would he say my mother didn’t receive the money?
I looked at the letter again.
I did not buy you.
For the first time, I wondered whether those words might actually be true.
But I didn’t trust him.
Not yet.
I barely slept.
Every creak of the old house made me open my eyes.
Around three in the morning, I heard footsteps in the hallway.
Slow.
Uneven.
Then silence.
I got out of bed.
I opened the door a few inches.
The hallway was dark.
At the far end, I saw Mr. Sullivan standing beside the staircase.
He was holding the railing.
His shoulders were bent.
For a second, I thought he was simply tired.
Then his body suddenly jerked.
He collapsed.
“Mr. Sullivan!”
I ran.
He was lying on the floor, one hand pressed against his chest.
His face had turned frighteningly pale.
I dropped beside him.
“What do I do?”
He struggled to breathe.
“Drawer…”
“What?”
“Study…”
He pointed weakly toward the room across the hall.
“Medicine.”
I ran into the study.
There were shelves everywhere.
Books.
Folders.
Old photographs.
I opened drawers frantically until I found a small brown bottle.
I grabbed it and ran back.
He took the pills with shaking hands.
I helped him sit against the wall.
For several minutes, neither of us spoke.
I could hear only his breathing.
Eventually, the color returned to his face.
“You should have called an ambulance,” I whispered.
“I didn’t want you to be frightened.”
I stared at him.
“I was already frightened.”
He looked at me.
“I’m sorry.”
Those two words affected me more than they should have.
I helped him to his feet.
He was heavier than he looked, but he leaned carefully against me without pulling me closer than necessary.
We reached the downstairs bedroom.
He sat on the edge of the bed.
I stood there awkwardly.
“You should go back upstairs.”
I didn’t move.
“How often does that happen?”
He sighed.
“Sometimes.”
“Sometimes?”
“More often lately.”
“Why aren’t you in a hospital?”
“I’ve spent enough time in hospitals.”
“That’s not an answer.”
He smiled faintly.
“You sound like my doctor.”
“Maybe your doctor is right.”
For the first time, I saw something resembling warmth in his expression.
“Perhaps.”
I turned to leave.
“Valerie.”
I stopped.
“Thank you.”
I nodded.
Then I went upstairs.
But something had changed.
I still feared him.
I still hated the situation.
But I no longer saw him simply as the old man who had bought a young woman.
There was a mystery surrounding him.
And somehow, I had the feeling that mystery involved me.
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