Chapter 12
Laria’s façade crumbled completely. Her voice climbed into a desperate.
“Please, Hektor, don’t hurt me,” she sobbed, mascara streaming down her face.
Hektor swayed on his feet, his shirt soaked crimson. He seemed not to hear her pleas at all.
Instead, he plunged the knife into her stomach. Once. Twice. Again and again.
Blood spattered across my face and clothes.
Kira burst through the doorway at the sounds. Seeing the carnage before her, she froze mid–step, her hand flying to her mouth.
Only when Laria collapsed into a lifeless heap did Hektor finally stop. He turned to me, his eyes
fevered and unfocused.
“She can’t hurt you anymore,” he whispered, his voice eerily calm. “I killed her… for your mother. For you. That’s what you wanted… right? Am I forgiven now?”
His legs gave out and he crumpled to his knees, dropping the knife with a clatter. His blood–slicked
hand reached toward me.
Slowly, deliberately, I walked forward.
A flicker of desperate hope lit his face as I leaned down, my lips almost brushing his ear.
“I will never forgive you,” I whispered softly. “Not in this lifetime or any other.”
The light in his eyes died with my words. He closed them slowly as his body pitched forward onto
the concrete.
Hektor didn’t die that day.
The police responding to Laria’s attack got him to the hospital in time to save his body, if not his
mind.
After his physical recovery, he was transferred to a high–security psychiatric facility.
Chapter 12
His mother appeared at my door countless times afterward, the imperious socialite replaced by a
broken woman.
She begged me to visit Hektor, insisting it might help his condition.
I studied this woman–her hair turned white overnight, her face carved with new lines of suffering–and said.
“The mighty Hektor Reed, needing someone like me to save him? I don’t think so.”
Mrs. Reed left in defeat, her shoulders hunched with disappointment. I watched her
flicker of emotion.
go
without a
After my exoneration, the authorities issued a formal public apology.
The art world welcomed back its prodigal daughter with open arms, critics falling over themselves to praise my “resilience.”
But I made a decision: for the rest of my life, I would never sell another painting.
Instead, I chose to stay in that small town and accepted a position teaching art at the local elementary school.
Watching the innocent expressions on my students‘ faces gave me a reason to keep going.
Having lost everything I once valued, I chose to use whatever time I had left to contribute something neaningful to the world.
Even when life drives you to the darkest depths, you can always choose to turn your face toward the ight.
What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.
